Diplomacy and Other Lies
by bluedana
Summary: As war with the Romulans looms, the Enterprise is on a mission to gather as many allies as possible. But during a successful First Contact, one indulgent act sets a devastating plot in motion. Can the crew discover the truth in time to stop a genocide?
1. In The Heat Of The Night

**Summary:** As war with the Romulans looms, the Enterprise is on a mission to gather as many allies as possible. But during a successful First Contact, one indulgent act sets a devastating plot in motion. Can the crew discover the truth in time to stop a genocide?

**Disclaimer:** Star Trek: Enterprise and its characters are the property of Paramount.

**Diplomacy and Other Lies,**

**by bluedana**

**Chapter One - In the Heat of the Night**

It was freaking hot. Not just Vulcan sun beating down on you in the Forge hot; not even just drag yourself through jungle air so humid that it felt like pumpkin soup hot; but a soul-sapping, head-pounding, _this is what hell feels like for real_ hot that made survival training in the Australian desert on Earth feel like a balmy spring day.

Captain Jonathan Archer surreptitiously pressed his fingertips against the throbbing vein in his temple. He couldn't have been the only one in the entourage who felt seconds away from melting into a puddle on the flagstones of the museum courtyard. He sneaked a glance at his First Officer, Commander T'Pol, who appeared way too interested in the architecture for someone who'd been traipsing through monuments and historical sites for the past sixteen hours. She still looked, as his mother would have said, "fresh as a daisy," while he felt more like wilted spinach.

He wished Carah Shon's sun would set already. Dusk would bring with it the beautiful, cooling nightly rain, and a drop in temperature of about forty degrees. He wished he'd had the foresight to have T'Pol declare the planet's environment inhospitable to humans; he would gladly have traded this miserable combination of oppressive heat and unbearable humidity for a heavy, clunky EVA suit.

He knew he really shouldn't complain since, aside from the weather, this first contact was, so far, a resounding success. The invitation to visit Carah Shon, the main world of the five-planet system, had come with all sorts of benefits. The Carah Shon L'os, literally translated as The People of the World (the capital letters being both appropriate and necessary), were technologically advanced; they had discovered warp travel more than a century, relatively speaking, before humans had. By now, their developmental pendulum had swung the other way, and their scientific community was focused inward, on medicine and environmental issues, such as terra forming within their own system. They had a lot to offer, and didn't mind sharing. It also didn't hurt that they had no notion of Starfleet's ulterior motives for opening a diplomatic dialogue.

Geren Obot Liaison, the high-ranking dignitary who had greeted them upon their arrival, walked by Archer's side. He looked around with mild interest, having confided that he himself had little aptitude for art or history. "Darala Tam Ov is quite eager to meet you and Commander T'Pol at tonight's reception. She conveys her regrets that she will not be able to greet you before then."

Archer forced a smile. "Oh, I understand. I'm sure Darala is extremely busy, given all her duties. In any event, she's certainly rolled out the red carpet for us." After coming into contact with Enterprise, The People had quickly convened a conference of their most important scientists and cultural leaders. Archer had authorized his department heads to rotate through the conference, to get as much exposure as they could to this remarkably open culture.

"Your language is very … colourful, Captain Archer," Geren said, blinking in amusement.

Archer winced. "Well, normally I'd have my Communications Officer, Ensign Hoshi Sato, accompany me on first contacts. She has this extraordinary gift for learning languages almost instantly. I've never seen anything like it. But I couldn't pass up an opportunity to let her study at the Hall of Cultures while we're here, so I'm afraid I'm at the mercy of my universal translator. It isn't as proficient at conveying nuances."

"The language of The People is more literal than yours, I think," said Geren. "We don't use very many word-pictures."

"Then I imagine my Chief Engineer's translator must be having a nervous breakdown by now," Archer commented with a smile. Commander Trip Tucker had begun chomping at the bit to explore some of The People's prototype shipyards the minute he had seen mention of them in the briefing packet. Archer hadn't seen Trip for more than a few minutes since they'd made planetfall three days ago.

As for Archer, he and T'Pol were treated as heads of state. Every waking moment was scheduled to the second, and their guide seemed to be under strict orders to show them absolutely everything of interest anywhere on the planet. Almost since dawn, they had been traveling from site to site, in a series of airborne hops over the three large continents, and pummeled with historical and cultural information.

Geren quietly excused himself and left the tourist party as their guide, a ruthlessly efficient little being named Arat Atanoma, gestured to the intricate pattern of the stonework on the arch of the museum above them. Arat's voice poured in a constant stream from the translating device clipped to Archer's ear. T'Pol hung back slightly and studied Archer's face. "We should return to our rooms," she observed quietly. "You're exhausted."

"Can't be much longer," Archer answered, unwilling to be the weak link in the landing party, "it's getting late." He gestured toward the darkening horizon. "Rain's almost here. You can already see the clouds forming. This must be the last stop."

Sure enough, a few moments later, Arat ushered Archer, T'Pol, and their security escort into the luxurious - and wonderfully cool – vehicle, a flying tube not unlike an old-style jetliner, which had been placed at their disposal for the duration of their visit. T'Pol perched on the edge of her seat, neck craning to take in the lush green and yellow vegetation of the rainforest as it sped beneath them. Archer leaned back, his long legs stretched out and vibrating with fatigue from the kilometers they had walked during their last cultural tour. They flew at low altitude to the Regent's Palace, the lavish home of the ceremonial ruler, where they had been given guest quarters.

"Crewman," Archer said to his security escort as they walked down the well-appointed corridor to their suites, past extravagant, six meter high tapestries covering every wall, "you look like I feel. Why don't you take the evening off? I'm sure you'd rather rest than play bodyguard through a four and a half hour dinner."

Crewman James Egawa eyed his captain. They'd had this same conversation the previous night. "That's very kind of you, sir," Egawa answered, exactly as he had the evening before, "but my orders are to stay with you and Commander T'Pol whenever you are in public." He opened T'Pol's door and checked inside the rooms briefly but thoroughly, then did the same in Archer's suite across the wide hall.

Archer half-smiled and shook his head. It had been worth a try, anyway. He couldn't exactly order the guy not to do his job. "I'll have to let Lieutenant Reed know how . . . diligent you are, Crewman."

"Thank you, sir," Egawa responded sincerely. "Shall I meet you and the commander back here in an hour?"

At T'Pol's nod, Archer agreed. "And, Crewman," he added, as the security escort began to walk toward his own room, one door down from T'Pol's, "you wouldn't mind if I called you 'James,' would you? We've been off-ship for two days now, and 'Crewman' is starting to sound a little formal. Or do you prefer 'Jim?'"

That produced the first real smile Archer had seen from the serious young man. His grin was endearing and eager, and lit his entire face. "Actually, I go by 'Jamey,' sir," he said.

"Then I'll see you back here in an hour, Jamey," Archer replied. He and T'Pol watched as Egawa ducked into his own suite.

T'Pol turned to the captain. "I don't understand. Why would you pretend not to know Mr. Egawa's preferred form of address?"

Archer shrugged. "Ever seen the kid smile before? No, me neither. This is the kid's first off-ship assignment, doing bodyguard duty, of all things. Maybe if I call him by his first name, make a little conversation, he'll unbend a little, relax, take in some of the sights on these tours, instead of playing stiff tin soldier. Did you know he has a Master's in Ancient Civilizations from the University of Cairo?"

"I did not know that."

"And Malcolm has him babysitting me. What a waste."

"It's not a waste if Mr. Egawa is able to keep you safe while off-ship," T'Pol pointed out, "which is of course Lieutenant Reed's main concern. If –"

"T'Pol," Archer interrupted tiredly, "I've already gotten the lecture from Malcolm – several times." He stepped into his own room, tossing over his shoulder, "See you in an hour."

Those sixty minutes gave him just enough time to drink the entire pitcher of juice left over from this morning's breakfast, take a quick but well-needed cool shower, and change into a fresh uniform. Nobody at Starfleet had had the foresight to design a dress uniform able to withstand the constant ninety-five percent humidity of Carah Shon. His serviceable blue jumpsuit, while mundane, held up much better.

He fingered the data badge he had worn clipped to his uniform the entire time he'd been on planet. The Law of The People required all off-worlders to submit a detailed genetic and physical history, which was stored on a disk the size of shirt button. Before any food could be consumed by a visitor, the server had to determine that no ingredient in the dish would be harmful to the guest. Each and every time a plate or glass was placed before a guest, the server waved a wand over the data badge and waited to see whether an alarm sounded. Failure to do so was punishable by death. Arat had been adamant about this throughout their stay, and after learning that The People had endured a devastating war when a visiting alien from another system had died after an allergic reaction to a native food ingredient, Archer couldn't argue with their vigilance.

Archer checked his wristwatch and calculated for local time. He had a few minutes to call the ship – not that he was worried or anything, he just wanted to check in – before this evening's sumptuous dinner and its after-entertainment, some sort of dance concert showcasing the best talents from around The World. Arat had already warned the humans – a number of times – of the importance Darala placed on punctuality. Archer had made every effort to stay a few minutes ahead of the established agenda, in order to avoid offending the Carah Shon L'os leader.

"Archer to Enterprise," he said into his communicator.

"Sato here, Captain," came the dulcet tones of his Communications Officer.

Archer frowned. By ship's time, Hoshi should have been off-duty. "What are you doing on the Bridge? Something wrong?"

Hoshi sounded amused. "No, sir. I've just gotten back from the symposium – it ran a little long – and I couldn't wait to start processing some of the data I gathered. I guess I'm too wired to sleep."

"Uh-huh, well, tomorrow is another day, Hoshi. Don't wear yourself out. Where's Commander Tucker?" Archer hoped Trip was getting some rest, but suspected he was holed up in his second home on board Enterprise.

He was right. "He's down in Engineering, sir. Would you like me to comm him?"

Archer sighed. He really didn't have anything urgent to report; he just wanted to talk to somebody familiar - and human - for a minute, to bitch about the heat and maybe get a little sympathy. But it wasn't important enough to pull Trip from whatever he was doing. "No," he replied, a little deflated. "I'll touch base with him in the morning. Archer out." He closed the communicator and stashed it back in his sleeve pocket. Time to go.

By the dinner's sixth course, Archer was beginning to envy T'Pol's vegetarian preference, and was mentally kicking himself for not claiming to be one as well. While she could skip whole courses because they were made with animal products (the servers were as vigilant about this as they were about any physical restrictions), Archer had no such out. Under Arat's slightly disapproving gaze, he politely ate at least a few bites of every dish placed before him, and took a few sips of each accompanying glass of juice, wine, or ale, depending on the course. Between the amount of unfamiliar food and the lingering, still uncomfortable heat, he was beginning to feel a little ill. He wished he could duck outside for some fresh air, but the nightly rain was just reaching its peak, and the whipping wind made it sound like a monsoon. By morning, though, the downpour would end, and the sun and humidity would rise to steam Carah Shon all over again.

On his left side, Egawa also ate only the vegetarian dishes and, like his First Officer, substituted water for the alcoholic beverages. Archer leaned over and questioned whether there was a problem with his food.

"No, sir," Egawa answered in a low voice. "I was raised in a Muslim home. I doubt if any of the meat here was prepared by halal rules." He grimaced. "I'm sorry, sir. I hope I'm not offending anyone."

Archer shook his head, now envying Egawa as well. "I'm sure our hosts have taken it in stride, Jamey. They don't seem to have any issue with T'Pol's preferences either." He noticed that throughout their conversation, Egawa had remained alert, taking in every movement of anyone in the vicinity. "No need to apologize." He stabbed a piece of what looked like fish, and popped it into his mouth. It was tasty, but he was beyond full and looking forward to the end of the meal.

He was pushing pieces of what looked like pudding-filled pastry around his plate, trying to make a good show of it without actually eating any, when Arat appeared stiffly at his left shoulder. "Captain Archer, the evening's entertainment will begin shortly. May I escort you to your seat?" Archer rose gratefully, dabbing at his mouth with the immaculate napkin. He was anticipating meeting Darala at last, almost as much as he was anxious to get away from all this food.

The Great Auditorium was empty, save for Darala, Her Serenity in Repose, who occupied an enormous, ornate seat against the wall at the front of the room. She was a stately beauty who was robed in the richest, most sumptuous attire Archer had ever seen. Her hair, so black it seemed almost blue, was twisted into an intricate knot, topped by a royal-looking head piece. Although she probably was only a few centimeters shorter than himself, he decided that there was nothing matronly about her. Her deeply tanned face was expressive and mobile; if she were human, Archer would have placed her age at anywhere from twenty-five to forty years old.

Darala addressed the Starfleet officers warmly, grasping first Archer's hand and then Egawa's in a firm grip. "Captain, I have heard many wonderful things about you and your crew. I am very pleased – finally – to meet you."

"Darala," Archer responded, for that was both her name and her title, "may I present my First Officer, Commander T'Pol of Vulcan, and my escort, Crewman James Egawa of Earth."

Smiling ruefully, Darala attempted, but didn't quite master, the Vulcan _ta'al_. T'Pol returned the gesture. "Thank you for your indulgence, Captain. Affairs of state have kept me from receiving you earlier."

"We've been well taken care of, I assure you," Archer replied. "Your people have been very generous with their time. I have been receiving reports from my officers who have returned to Enterprise. It sounds like it'll take months to absorb all of the research and information The People have provided. And I think we'll all have to go on a strict diet, after all of this amazing food."

Darala approximated a smile and gestured for her guests to be seated. The performers began to filter out onto the stage and take their places. The lights dimmed and the music began. In Archer's culture, it might be considered rude to talk through a performance, especially as they were the only audience. Not so with the Carah Shon L'os. The captain found it a bit difficult to concentrate on the performances while simultaneously holding a conversation with Darala.

"I understand that your people dance for pleasure," Darala said. "Are you skilled?"

One side of Archer's mouth tipped up. "Skilled? No, I can't dance to save my life."

Darala seemed to perk up. One of her eye ridges moved slightly, indicating, if Archer was reading it right, that she was intrigued. "Dancing is a combat sport on your world?"

Archer shook his head as if to clear it; had he lost the thread of the conversation that quickly? Then he smiled. "Oh – right, no, that's an expression. We don't actually dance to the death or anything. I just mean that I'm not very good at it." Talking to these literal minded people gave him a bit of sympathy for Trip, who seemed to spend half his time explaining common Southern figures of speech to aliens.

"Then it is an enjoyment," she prodded. It was easier to agree with her than to convey how much he loathed dancing, so he gave her a cross between a nod and a shrug. It seemed to satisfy her, and she settled back in her seat to watch the next presentation.

Being stuffed to the gills didn't make it easy to stay awake during the dance concert. The music was loud and booming, though, with a lot of drums and flutes. To Archer, it was reminiscent of ancient Native American dance, with vivid colors and energetic, abandoned performances. He was surprised at the naked emotion displayed there; the lively dances, with their pounding, driving beats, made his blood throb in response. The next piece, with its slower, almost melancholy, choreography left him feeling wistful and lonely. That he could be so easily manipulated through music and movement made him a bit uneasy. He was acutely aware of the glances Darala shot his way from time to time; she seemed more interested in watching him than following the dancers.

_Ayn-ha deri lyada  
Si vaniati-kwa do vay-yat ido  
Deri lyada soomi-tevat_

He sneaked a peek at T'Pol, seated on his other side. She had an expression of polite interest on her face, but he suspected that she felt none of the rawness of the performances, that she was not viscerally moved. He felt both a little bit sorry for her, and a little bit envious that her mastery of emotions was stronger than the power of suggestion.

_Si vaniati-kwa eratio-anut  
Sayn to yish-vaha_

He fidgeted in his seat and unfastened the top two buttons of his jersey. The chilly air conditioning suddenly seemed inadequate against the oppressive atmosphere.

After the two hour performance was over, it was time for a post-performance reception – more food, more wine, more conversation. Archer pinned a pleasant expression on his face as Arat ushered him and T'Pol into yet another grand ballroom, with Egawa bringing up the rear. This time, buffet tables lined the walls (Archer could have sworn he heard the sideboards creaking with the strain of all the platters), while a large space which looked suspiciously like a dance floor lay empty in the middle of the room.

To elaborate fanfare, Darala entered. She was dressed in a completely different outfit than she had worn at the concert just half an hour before. A tall, graceful woman, she was draped in a robe made of a stiff silky material the color of the Caribbean, with an under-dress of coral. Both pieces were covered with green embroidery, delicate and intricate, which Archer suspected must have taken a hundred seamstresses a thousand hours to accomplish. Tonight, her headdress was a cap made of filigreed gold, a symbol, their guide had told them, that Darala was "in Repose," meaning that The People were not at war with anyone.

Gone, too, was the informal flirtation of their first meeting. She made one circuit of the enormous room, now bearing all of the solemnity of her office, allowing her subjects to bow deeply to her, and stopped in front of Archer. He nodded his head once, as Starfleet protocol forbade him to genuflect to a foreign sovereign. Darala expected this, and held out her hand for him to kiss. That he could do, and charmingly.

"Commander T'Pol," Darala greeted formally, her sonorous voice projecting to the far corners of the room, "I am trusting that your visit with us has been enjoyable."

"It has, Serenity," T'Pol answered. "I don't believe I have ever visited a planet so fascinating in its history, nor so breathtaking in its beauty as this one."

Archer stared at his First Officer. Vulcan diplomacy wasn't usually this poetic. But it did the job, as Darala blinked slowly, The People's version of a delighted smile, and murmured a thanks. She hadn't let go of Archer's hand, however, and now turned to him. "I will allow a moment for you to refresh yourself, Captain, and then we will dance." She blinked again, and moved off, like a luxury liner in calm water.

Dance? Archer felt beads of perspiration break out on his forehead, and this time it had nothing to do with the heat. He looked around for Arat, but for once the obsequious little man was nowhere to be found. "She expects me to _dance_ with her? I don't recall reading anything about dancing in any of the briefings . . ." Maybe he had missed some critical piece of information during one of those cultural tours he hadn't paid complete attention to.

T'Pol's expression did not change. "There is no reason to panic, Captain."

"Sure there is," he retorted. "I'm a terrible dancer. And I certainly don't have any _alien_ dances in my repertoire." He snagged a glass of something from a passing tray, waited impatiently until the server confirmed his bio-data badge with the ubiquitous wand, then gulped half of it down in one swallow.

"Captain," T'Pol said, and he could have sworn there was an amused glint in her eye, "you are a seasoned explorer and a trained diplomat. I am quite confident that whatever Darala intends will not be beyond your considerable skills."

"You know, whenever someone reminds me that I'm a trained diplomat," Archer muttered irritably under his breath, "I end up half-naked and tattooed, with a chain saw in my hand." He sent a mock-glare over his shoulder as Egawa choked back a laugh.

"I don't see any power tools in the vicinity," T'Pol observed. Archer downed the rest of his drink.

The orchestra started into its first piece, a strange, lilting melody played on instruments vaguely analogous to stringed and wind instruments found on Earth. They evoked the sound of rain, of wind sighing through branches heavy with leaves, of surf hitting the shore. Six costumed dancers took the floor, male and female, gliding as if on rails, their bodies sensuously contorting around each other, making love without touching. Archer swore quietly. No way he could do that, nor was he even going to try.

The dancers moved with their eyes closed, as if psychically aware of every other person on the dance floor, whispering past each other, a feather's width apart.

Archer found himself mesmerized, unable to take his eyes off of the undulating bodies. He almost didn't notice when the music changed, sounding vaguely familiar, and Darala, sans robe, stood before him. She skimmed a warm hand down his face, barely touching him, and drew him into the open circle of the dance floor as if he were pulled by a string.

_Si vaniati-kwa do vay-yat ido  
Deri lyada soomi-tevat_

His feet moved without his conscious will having anything to do with it. Darala locked eyes with him, her mouth a straight, concentrated line. He mirrored her languid moves as if drugged, yet his body buzzed with a million bees. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked the drops away, unaware that the motion translated to a sensual smile for Darala.

The movements were erotic, but not sexual, and he hadn't thought such a thing possible before this moment. He was vaguely aware of the faces as they passed, all of them fading into the background: awed members of Darala's court, unreadable politicians, a now slightly worried-looking T'Pol.

The cadence of his heartbeat kept pace with the rhythm of the music, his pulse throbbing at his temple, in his chest, in his fingertips. Darala's sleeve brushed past his face, and he breathed in the sweet perfumey scent of her. He felt at once lightheaded, breathless, and totally grounded in the moment.

_Sayn to yish-vaha  
Sayn to yish-vaha_

He was almost disappointed when the music stopped, felt lost for a moment before re-orienting himself. He stared at Darala, knowing his face must be flushed and wide open. Darala lived up to her title; she was Serenity personified, her expression satisfied and peaceful. She held her hand out once again, and he kissed it again. After a small hesitation, a low sound arose, as the watchers applauded by politely tapping their forearms with their palms. It had the cautious quality of an act that was expected, not inspired.

Released, Archer walked back to where T'Pol and Egawa were standing. He hoped he hadn't just made a giant fool of himself. A server scanned his badge and handed him a glass. Only after draining it did he dare look at his First Officer.

She nodded briefly, saying nothing, but the anxious look didn't leave her eyes.

After several moments, their guide, Arat, appeared at his elbow and offered to escort him to his room. Archer immediately accepted, quietly ordering Egawa to stay at the reception with T'Pol. The guide said nothing during the ten-minute walk to the guest suites. Archer was no expert in Carah Shon facial expressions, but he got the distinct impression that Arat was angry, or perhaps upset. His puzzled "Thanks," was met with stony silence and a curt nod before the ornate door slammed shut, leaving him in the darkness of his suite.

The water pitcher had been refilled, and he gulped down two glasses of the cold liquid in quick succession.

Archer gratefully fell into his sumptuously soft bed, exhausted to his very bones, and quite aware that he was in store for even more cultural and historical education the next day, before he returned to _Enterprise_. He resolved to pay closer attention to the lectures, lest The People throw any more surprises his way.

But the balance of the night held no restful sleep for him. Over and over, his consciousness floated to the surface, never quite breaking through, only to be dragged back down into a warm, alien world. In his dreams there were caressing hands, soft whispers, haunting notes. He felt aroused and unfulfilled, heavy and liquid in the dark. When the sun rose, filtering wetly through the windows, he could barely drag his eyelids open. The pounding of the rain, or maybe the pounding of the drums, echoed in his head as sleep left him. It must have been the combination of the heavy, moist air, the evocative music and dancing, and the semi-alcoholic beverages he'd been sipping all night. That was it, he decided sleepily, untangling himself from the damp, tousled sheets; it was only an exotic hangover causing this strange yearning he could not place.

_Si vaniati-kwa eratio-anut  
Sayn to yish-vaha_


	2. Don Juan of the Galaxy

**Chapter Two - Don Juan of the Galaxy**

Archer's earnest resolution to be a better student died an early death. He was still bored out of his mind on the morning's tour of The People's Archive, a repository of ancient documents. Over and over, he had to drag his mind back to the present, away from the whispers and music and caresses of his fleeting dreams. From the glances T'Pol shot him occasionally, he was not hiding his inattention very well. He considered telling her about his odd dreams, but decided that she didn't need any more anxiety to suppress.

A low voice behind him caught his attention. Egawa, looking crisp and professional even in the steamy morning heat, had his communicator close to his mouth, and Archer realized the security escort was checking in with _Enterprise_. He could hear Lieutenant Reed's voice, the vocal inflections rising at the end of each sentence as the Tactical Officer questioned Egawa on the day's agenda.

"We should be on time for takeoff, sir," Egawa said in response to Reed's query. "There is a short reception after this tour, and the captain and commander will take leave of Darala afterwards."

Archer was about to turn away, when he heard Reed ask, "_Has the captain managed to stay awake in any of the lectures_?"

Egawa's toffee skin almost hid his blush. His eyes darted to Archer's face, which seemed to be made of stone. "Uh, he's been doing okay," Egawa answered Reed circumspectly. Archer furrowed his brow. _Okay?_ he mouthed, and rolled his eyes. He'd thought his performance the night before had been pretty damned impressive, given the short notice and lack of preparation.

Egawa grinned. "Well, actually, Lieutenant," he went on, dropping his voice dramatically, "we almost had an . . . incident after last night's concert." Archer's eyebrows climbed. "Darala invited the captain to dance with her. I don't think he was quite expecting that." Archer suppressed a snort, as did Reed. "It was . . . interesting."

There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh. "_I knew I should have accompanied him myself, or at least warned you_," Reed said finally, sounding dejected. "_Well, your three days are almost up. Maybe the first contact can be salvaged somehow_."

Archer's shoulders shook with silent laughter as he made a rolling motion with his hand to keep Egawa going. Poor Malcolm. He wondered if there would ever come a day when he would stop shocking the lieutenant's sensibilities. "From the looks of things this morning, Lieutenant, it appears that the captain was able to . . . smooth things over with Her Serenity . . . in Repose," Egawa deadpanned.

There was a significant pause, then Reed responded faintly, "_I see_." As if suddenly conscious of the insecurity of the transmission, he added crisply, "_Further report can wait until you return to _Enterprise_, Crewman_."

"Aye, sir," Egawa managed, and closed the communicator. He shot Archer a sidelong glance to see if he had taken the joke too far, but the captain was still chuckling.

"I don't know if I should be disturbed that the lieutenant thinks I'm uncultured, or relieved that I now have a reputation of being an intergalactic ladies' man." The captain composed his face into stern lines. "I guess I'll have to give that some thought." He fell into step alongside the security escort and hurried to catch up with the entourage. "At least there weren't any chainsaws."

"Aye, sir," Egawa repeated, sounding vastly relieved that Captain Archer had a healthy sense of humor about himself.

Taking his leave of Carah Shon, and of Darala, who with her entourage had appeared at the transport terminal, proved difficult. Despite the weather challenges, Archer found himself more than a bit sad to be departing. For once, the pull of the planet was almost as strong as his desire to get back to his ship. He delayed a few moments more, making friendly but unimportant conversation, even as T'Pol and Egawa boarded the transport shuttle.

Darala seemed regretful that their visit was over, as well. Archer had felt, in all the time spent in her presence, a definite affection emanating from her. This morning, she wore less ceremonial garb, and the bright sunlight made her look somehow younger, fresher, and less stately than she had the night before.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Captain," she said, blinking. She was almost as tall as he, and held his gaze unwaveringly. "There is still very much I wish to discuss with you."

Archer smiled warmly. "It has been a great honor to be in the presence of Darala Tam Ov," he said slowly, taking care not to stumble over the correct pronunciation of her sacred title, the closest translation of which was, "She Who Is." It was the name she had inherited the instant she'd ascended to the Throne of the People.

Darala flushed bright orange with pleasure. "That you could stay," she said wistfully. "Perhaps you will return someday, to represent your world among The People." Archer's smile wobbled a little at the thought of living in the steamy heat permanently. "Something to be taken up with Earth's next emissary," he responded noncommittally. She blinked at him fondly, and he again heard the haunting music and felt the tug toward her that he didn't understand.

She offered her hand in the human manner to say goodbye, and as Archer took hold of it, he felt a warm flush wash over his body. To his horror, he recognized a decidedly sexual stir. He hoped his face was not as red as it felt. With a mental focus he would not have believed he could summon, he concentrated on subduing both the wayward sensations and his inappropriate thoughts. He kissed her hand as he had the night before, and smelled again the distinctive perfume of his dreams. It was only the sudden ignition of the shuttle engines that broke the spell and allowed him to turn and step up the shuttle's gangway.

Archer settled himself into his seat, waiting for the pilot to complete her pre-flight check. Darala had insisted that Archer, T'Pol, and Egawa be chauffeured back to their ship, rather than have _Enterprise_'s shuttle pod make yet another six hour long round trip to get them.

The flight technicians bustled outside the craft, checking and re-checking systems. Archer watched them for a moment, then turned his attention to the PADD in his hand. The next order of business would be composing a report to Starfleet Headquarters. This being a successful first contact, he started with the conclusion: _It is my recommendation that Starfleet send an emissary to the Carah Shon immediately. The People are eager for contact, and I believe they will prove to be an important ally in the event of hostilities. _

He paused, despising the fact that he could not have been completely upfront with Darala. Her attitude appeared to be one of pure friendship, with a dash of curiosity about the nascent alliance between Earth and its immediate neighbors. Starfleet's interest in Carah Shon was a bit more practical; her fleet of well-armed ships, although small, would come in handy to protect and promote the Coalition of Planet's concerns in this region of space.

Now, after struggling over the first three paragraphs for a long while, he glanced up, feeling the weight of T'Pol's stare on the top of his head. She studied him for a moment more, then said, "You appear to be having some difficulty writing, Captain."

He shrugged. "It's hard putting into words what happened last night. I'm not sure I understand it myself, or whether I did the right thing."

"You mean your . . . contact with Darala?" T'Pol asked carefully.

Archer scowled, feeling less confident by the minute. "It was clear that I couldn't actually refuse the dance without causing a scene. It's not like I _slept_ with her, T'Pol," he added defensively. T'Pol simply raised an eyebrow, and after seven years as her commanding officer, he could read its subtle message as clearly as the glowing PADD screen in his hand: _Not as far as you know . . ._ He swallowed. "It's just that I can't find any reference to that ritual in any of the diplomatic material the Carah Shon gave us."

T'Pol looked out the window, and Archer got the distinct impression that there was more she wanted to say. Tact was not the Vulcan's strong suit; when possessed of information that would likely only upset her captain without solving the problem at hand, she often simply chose not to speak. He felt the last of his confidence slip away, just like that.

"There's something you're not telling me," he observed.

T'pol cocked her head. "There is little benefit in discussing it, since the events are in the past and cannot be changed."

"Spit it out, T'Pol," he said, bracing himself.

She sighed. "When I returned to my rooms, I was able to connect to the database of The People's Library. It is a public archive," she added, as if she were concerned that Archer would accuse her of hacking into the Carah Shon systems. "I learned that inviting an honoured guest to participate in a dance ritual is an old, seldom-used custom of the Darala. Typically, it was a way of acknowledging a family connection or an important alliance." She shifted slightly in her seat. "There are some human analogues to this type of ceremony: heads of ancient Earth civilizations would exchange offspring, intermingle their blood, or share a pipe of flammable plant matter to demonstrate a bond."

"And that's what this . . . dance ritual was? An alliance ceremony?" Somehow, Archer didn't think that was the whole story.

"I believe I said it was _analogous_ to those ceremonies. It appears that the particular dance and the particular music chosen by Darala signifies something rather . . . stronger than a bond of state. More along the lines of an intimacy. But it is likely that the meaning has been diluted over the years," T'Pol added hastily, clearly trying to ease his mind, "and today may simply used to convey a new bond between representatives of two governments."

It didn't work. "You know, you're the one who encouraged me to dance with her, with your 'exploration' and 'diplomacy' and all that, T'Pol."

The Vulcan pursed her lips, a human expression she'd picked over the years. "It was perhaps more . . . intense than I had expected."

"Great," Archer sighed, "I probably married her without knowing it." _And I'm sure Starfleet will be just thrilled that I've somehow become the Don Juan of the galaxy_.

"_That_ is unlikely," his First Officer replied.

"About as unlikely as a guy getting pregnant by playing with holographic pebbles, you think?" T'Pol looked quickly out of the porthole, the Vulcan equivalent of a snicker. "Right," Archer agreed unhappily. He decided then and there not to tell her about the dreams, or the adolescent reaction he'd just had to Darala's touch.

"What did Arat say about it?" T'Pol inquired.

"He didn't say anything at all, but he certainly wasn't happy." The guide had, in fact, worn a scowl all morning, clearly displeased with last night's events. He had said very little to them, had only collected their bio-data badges and left them at the shuttle with a curt goodbye. A different, clearly more junior guide waited for them in the shuttle, apparently with nothing more on his mind than providing them with a blanket and a soft pillow.

"Darala seemed pleased," T'Pol remarked. "This was a successful first contact, Captain."

"It's not over yet," Archer retorted as the shuttle engine engaged. Egawa took his seat across the cabin, having already opened every door and cabinet on the small ship. It would be a three hour trip to _Enterprise_, three hours before duty resumed and it was on to the next inhabited world. Egawa leaned back in his seat, relaxed for the first time in several days.

They felt the unfamiliar pull of the small ship fighting against Carah Shon's gravity, then the odd but welcome weightless feeling as it broke free. T'Pol tucked her legs underneath herself in a lotus position and drifted off into a light meditative trance. Archer, restless, stared out at the stars, testing his memory against the map on the PADD screen.

Thirty minutes into the flight, Egawa began looking toward the rear of the shuttle, trying to determine where the steward was. As he turned around for the third time, he caught Archer's eye and shrugged. "I'm just wondering if there are any snacks aboard," he explained a little sheepishly. "I'm feeling kind of munchy."

Archer couldn't seriously imagine eating another thing for the rest of the day, after the lavish send-off they had just experienced. Then again, Egawa had about twenty kilos of pure muscle on the captain, and probably needed twice as much fuel just to function.

Egawa sat back, a little dejected. "Oh, well, I guess they can't feed us anyway. We don't have those little badges anymore."

Right. Arat had retrieved the bio-data badges before the _Enterprise_ crew had boarded the shuttle. So much for any hope of an in-flight meal, then.

"We'll call ahead and make sure Chef has something waiting for you, how's that?" Archer said, smiling. "I'll probably be ready for a cold beer or three myself."

Just then, the flight steward appeared at Egawa's elbow. "Are you hungry?" he asked through his translator.

Egawa exchanged a surprised look with his captain. "Uh, yes, actually, I am. But I don't have my bio badge – " He stopped short when he realized that he was talking to empty air. A moment later, the steward reappeared and handed him a plate containing a fair approximation of a sandwich, two large, flat biscuity pieces of bread with some kind of brown paste inside. Egawa inquired what the paste was, but got no response, so he used the edge of the plate to scrape it off, and then ate the biscuits. Across the aisle, Archer accepted a glass of warm juice. He sniffed it briefly, a little paranoid after three days of having his biochemistry checked and rechecked before a morsel entered his mouth. T'Pol remained still, meditating.

Several minutes later, he felt a subtle change of course and commed the cockpit. "Is there a problem?" he asked, trying not to sound concerned. Almost immediately, the pilot's voice came over the intercom, translated by the device still affixed to his ear.

"_We are maneuvering around a small magnetic anomaly, Captain Archer_," said the calm voice. "_These are common to this area of space. It will not affect our flight time_."

Taking the pilot at her word, Archer leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He resolved not to second-guess. As a pilot himself, he knew that the single most annoying thing on a routine shuttle ride was a passenger who asked questions of the _Are we there yet?_ variety. Still, he checked the map on his PADD periodically to determine just how far off course the magnetic anomaly was sending them. He began to drift off to sleep to the sound of whispers and music, thinking that the anomaly must be roughly the size of Australia.

The next sound he registered was the crash of the cabin door as the frame between passenger cabin and airlock bent under the punch of a small but powerful explosive device.

Egawa was on his feet at once, phase pistol drawn, but could only throw himself in front of the captain and the commander in the split second it took for the intruders to swarm into the cabin amidst the smoke. The acrid fumes of scorched metal and melted insulation burned Archer's eyes. T'Pol murmured to her companions, under cover of the captain's pained coughing, "Five, by my count."

"Aye, sir," agreed Egawa, still shielding his superiors with his body.

The intruders wore sleek black EVA suits, with opaque helmets, and carried enormous rifles. Archer couldn't tell if they were pulse or projectile, and didn't particularly care to find out at that moment. There was an eerie silence for a second; nobody spoke.

One intruder stepped forward and grasped T'Pol by the throat, flinging her to the deck. She didn't react, falling limply, rather than fighting back. Archer placed a hand firmly on Egawa's chest, holding him back; the security officer barely restrained himself but got the message: _Wait._

In the rear of the passenger cabin, the terrified-looking flight attendant stood, frozen. A second intruder yanked his rifle around and fired into the cockpit, then wheeled and shot the flight attendant. _Now it's five against three_, Archer thought, not liking those odds at all.

The intruders manhandled T'Pol into a kneeling position, forcing her hands to the top of her head. Egawa, with the muzzle of the rifle to his temple, calmly set his phase pistol down on the floor and assumed the same position. Archer followed suit. One of the hijackers kicked the Starfleet weapon out of reach, while another scanned each of them with a hand-held device.

Egawa cleared his throat, obviously trying to get the officers' attention. He stared hard at T'Pol's face, then Archer's, then flicked his glance toward an upper cabinet. Archer was once again profoundly grateful that this man had been trained by Malcolm Reed. There were weapons in that cabinet, there had to be, and Egawa had made it his business to scope them out the minute he had boarded the shuttle. He nodded, consenting to the budding plan. If luck were on their side, they could take their captors by surprise, and gain control of the shuttle before it got too far off course in this unknown area of space.

T'Pol's body tensed ever so slightly, like a coil ready to spring. Archer mouthed silently, _Count of three_.

As one, they sprang to life, T'Pol taking out the being closest to her with a kick to the throat. She followed up with a neck pinch for good measure, and started after her second target. That one was ready for her, though, and blocked her first punch with its arm. Archer launched himself at the hijacker standing directly over him, and was slammed back to the deck with enough force to make his ears ring. He absorbed several sharp blows to his ribcage and abdomen from angry booted feet, and managed to curl in on himself to protect his vital organs. The kicks stopped abruptly as Egawa plucked the attacker away and snapped its neck with a powerful twist of his forearms.

Egawa's phase pistol lay just beyond Archer's fingertips, where the hijacker had kicked it. He curled his fingers around it, thumbed the power setting, and aimed at the intruder who was just now coming out of the cockpit, a large black box in its hand. It went down silently under the thick red beam, the box skittering away into a corner.

"Commander!" Egawa called before tossing T'Pol an alien weapon. It fit into her hand like a voice recorder, and she stabbed the largest button, aiming at one of the two remaining hijackers. The intruder let out a high pitched scream before convulsing and collapsing to the deck.

The last intruder, clearly moving to an alternate plan, ducked into the cockpit, and slammed the door in Archer's face. The captain felt the inertial dampeners strain as the small ship abruptly changed heading. He scrabbled around the door, searching for an emergency release, then backed up to try to kick the door in. He managed two strikes with his long legs before the deck shifted out from under him and he flew sideways to crunch into the bulkhead.

"Captain!" T'Pol reached out a hand toward him, but he waved her off.

"We've gotta get in there before he crashes us into an asteroid or something –" The ship banked again, abruptly, and he smashed into the first row of seats.

T'Pol yanked open the tall cabinet of supplies and searched through it for anything that looked like a tool. There was only a slim spade-like instrument, the actual purpose of which was unclear, but she hefted it in her hand and began to slide it into the tiny crack between the cockpit door and the jamb. "Crewman," she snapped, "assist me."

Egawa inserted his fingers into the seam and began to pull the door sideways, working along with T'Pol's lever. The locking mechanism defied both Egawa's bulk and T'Pol's Vulcan strength.

Archer wiped blood from his eye and glanced out of the porthole. Wisps of pink haze surrounded the ship, as it penetrated deeper into some sort of cloud. Having no idea where they were, and even less idea what the cloud consisted of, he had a bad feeling that the remaining hijacker's intention was both murder and suicide. He crawled up the aisle of the passenger cabin to retrieve the Starfleet issued pistol and one alien weapon.

He tossed the phase pistol to Egawa and took the security officer's place on the lever. It took the combined force of T'Pol and Archer, along with the sustained energy of Egawa's weapon, to break the door in enough to release the inner latch. Egawa rushed ahead, firing as he went. By the time Archer burst into the cockpit, Egawa had dispatched the last hijacker, and its body lay on the floor beside the dead pilot. Archer slid into the pilot's seat, stabilized the craft, and decelerated, trying to determine their position.

Egawa showed no sign of exertion, and not one hair on T'Pol's head lay out of place. Archer, on the other hand, felt as though his bell had been well and truly rung, and he recognized the ache in his side. "Report," he said hoarsely, briefly tearing his eyes away from the unfamiliar controls as he tried to adjust the attitude of the ship for the fourth time in sixty seconds. He could handle the helm, he thought; he needed the expertise of these two crew members to get them out of this situation – Egawa to keep them safe and T'Pol to find a solution.

The security officer disappeared into the main cabin for a moment, then reappeared to say, "Four dead, sir. That last one looks to be out for a while, though." That would be the intruder that T'Pol had neck-pinched. Perhaps they would get some answers out of him.

"T'Pol," Archer said, making yet another pitch adjustment, "see if you can raise _Enterprise_."

His First Officer tapped some buttons, examining the alien readouts. She tilted her head to listen, then reported quietly, "The communications console has been disabled. All commands are automatically being overridden."

"Overridden by what?" Archer asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

T'Pol pointed to a blinking dot on a small screen. "By this beacon. Perhaps the pilot sent a distress call before she was killed." She paused. "Or the intruder did."

Archer cursed softly and inventively. "He must have locked in a course, too, because I can't get the helm to respond properly. It's taking us deeper into this cloud – and I don't like it." He glanced at the blood smear on the back of his hand and remembered to ask, "Are you hurt, T'Pol? Is Egawa?"

The Vulcan didn't look up as her fingers flew over the unfamiliar keys, trying to find some back-door method of circumventing the comm blackout. "I am fine, Captain. I don't believe Crewman Egawa sustained any injuries either. Shall I call him in here?"

Archer sighed and shook his head gently. "No, he's busy securing the cabin. I'll go help him – since there's no point in trying to navigate this thing. Keep trying to hail _Enterprise_, T'Pol, and see if you can get sensors on line. I don't want to be caught by surprise again if there's someone on their way to rendezvous with this ship."

"Aye, sir," T'Pol answered.

Archer made his way carefully back into the passenger cabin. Egawa had collected all of the alien pistols and rifles, piling them up in a corner. He had already checked the bodies, removed their helmets, and was tying them all with what looked like strong electrical tape. Archer raised his eyebrows in query. "They seem dead to me, sir, but I'm not sure I'm feeling in the right place for a pulse, to be honest."

"Carry on," Archer said, grateful once again for Reed's thorough training. He eyed the lone survivor, also tied but separated from the others. It was humanoid, mostly, but not of any species Archer could readily recognize. The skin of its face was covered with hard, dark scales. "What about this guy?"

"He's alive for sure. I can hear him breathing." The alien chose that moment to let out a moan, and before the sound had died away, both Archer and Egawa had drawn their weapons and aimed them at its head. When it showed no signs of waking, the two humans relaxed.

"We may be expecting company, Jamey. There's some sort of beacon activated. I can only guess that whoever these aliens are, they were planning on meeting up with a bigger ship."

"It did seem like they were trying to take us alive, sir," Egawa offered. "Kidnappers don't get paid if their charges are dead."

Archer winced. "They knew right where we'd be. If they hadn't shot the pilot and the steward, I'd think that those two were involved in the set up."

Egawa shrugged. "I wouldn't rule that out completely, sir. Killing them certainly would eliminate two witnesses, especially if the kidnappers didn't need them anymore."

T'Pol stepped out of the cockpit. "Captain, there's a ship approaching. Sensors are barely functioning, but I can tell it is heading in this direction, sub-warp."

"Distance?"

"Less than five thousand kilometers."

"ETA?"

"I would estimate less than ten minutes, sir."

"Damn." Archer turned toward the pile of weapons. "Everybody grab two –"

"Sir," Egawa said in an urgent voice, "look."

The black box dropped by the hijacker had lain forgotten in a corner. It now began to emit a white mist, which grew thicker with each second. "Move!" Archer yelled. The two humans and the Vulcan immediately retreated to the back of the cabin, but the smoke soon filled the entire space. There was nowhere to go except out the airlock, and that wasn't an option. Archer watched in horror as the mist overtook them and T'Pol fell, then Egawa. He slid to the floor, defeated, and surrendered himself to the black.


	3. The Infinite Haystack

**Chapter Three - The Infinite Haystack**

Commander Trip Tucker ran the formula again, checking his calculations. He wished he were down in Engineering, his second home, but with both the captain and T'Pol off-ship, his place was on the Bridge, or at least close to it, in Archer's Ready Room. He eyed the clock again; Darala's shuttle, carrying his two superior officers and their security detail, was a little later than expected. He shrugged, happy at least to have escaped most of the pomp and circumstance the _Enterprise_ officers' visit had provoked.

For four days, _Enterprise_ had hung on the outskirts of the system. The Carah Shon L'os – literally translated as "The People of the World" – had populated the space surrounding their planet, third from their sun, with all manner of satellites and occupied stations. In accordance with proper planetary protocol as transmitted by the government of The People, _Enterprise_ orbited the outermost planet, staying out the main traffic and commerce zones.

While other department heads had attended the comprehensive conference organized by The People to welcome _Enterprise_ and educate the humans on the ways of The World, Trip had spent two full days touring state-of-the-art industrial plants and laboratories. He had returned to the ship each night, because he was technically in command, his mind stuffed to the brim with technological ideas, most of them too advanced for Starfleet to even begin to put into practical use.

But Trip didn't envy Archer or T'Pol, not at all. The captain and the science officer had gotten the full "cultural tour." Reports were that Darala, The People's hereditary ruler, had set a brutal agenda, dragging the two officers to every significant historical site, from monuments to museums to natural phenomena, all over the sweltering planet. When Trip had last seen Archer, at the third or fourth state reception, the one Trip hadn't been able to talk his way out of attending, the guy had looked ready to drop with exhaustion.

Trip resigned himself to remaining in command for a few days even after Archer's return, as Phlox would likely prescribe some much needed rest for the captain, and maybe even for T'Pol, Vulcan resiliency notwithstanding. The oppressive humidity had to be taking its toll on her, too, a creature born and raised in the arid desert.

He ran his eyes down the rolling list of ship's status reports which took up the right-hand side of the screen. Archer typically had three or four different computer programs going at any one time, including navigation, personnel duty rosters, and ship's environmental. Trip had been in the Ready Room on countless occasions, and had watched the captain multi-tasking, dividing his attention between the running status reports and whatever business the live person in front of him was concerned with. He reached out and closed the personnel report; all but three of the crew were on board - he didn't much care who was reporting for duty where or when. After a moment, he cleared navigation from the screen, too. Nothing more boring than keeping track of a geosynchronous orbit around a dead moon.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the captain kept his marbles, considering the sheer volume of information thrown at the man twenty-four hours a day. The few times Trip had taken command, usually in emergencies, he'd focused on the one task at hand, and had tossed the conn back to the captain like a burning hot potato at the very first opportunity.

The door chime chirped. "Yeah," Trip called informally. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stepped through the door and stood briefly at attention, as was his custom, before relaxing into parade rest. "Hey, Malcolm, what's up?" Trip greeted.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. Hard to believe there could be a command style even _less_ formal than Archer's, but there it was, and Trip was fully aware that it chapped Malcolm's ass. "Commander," the lieutenant responded. He glanced briefly at the PADD in his hand, then went on. "Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol were due to arrive back on _Enterprise_ six hours ago. I thought I would check with you to see whether you'd heard anything from them before I contact the Liaison."

"Nope, not a word. I guess they're running a bit late," Trip answered, not concerned. "Darala's probably dragging them through yet another archive. Or feeding them – again." He glanced at his genetic data badge, lying on the Ready Room desk, and recalled the methodical way the servers checked for any allergies or potential adverse reactions to any dish before serving it. His constitution had apparently been iron-clad, but there were a few ingredients in several dishes that would have made the captain quite ill, had he consumed them, so Trip guessed The People's caution had some merit.

But since the meals served by Darala's diplomatic staff never consisted of fewer than twelve courses, that was a lot of wand waving, and made for seriously drawn out dinners.

"Still," said Malcolm, "Crewman Egawa has orders to call in a status report every three hours. He's just missed his second one. That's not like him." Indeed, Trip knew that Malcolm had specifically chosen Egawa to accompany the captain and remain on planet with him until the visit ended. Malcolm and Archer had come to an understanding, finally, regarding security details on and off ship. While Archer still occasionally balked at having a personal bodyguard (Trip suspected that, at bottom, it just offended his egalitarian sensibilities), he always gave in, eventually. With the number of crew shuttling between the ship and the planet, though, Archer had insisted that Malcolm remain on board to coordinate. So Malcolm had assigned the most by-the-book security officer he had, James Egawa, knowing that he would stay on the captain like heat on fire.

Trip didn't really see the need to worry about the delayed shuttle, but he trusted Malcolm's instincts. "Okay, have Hoshi give the Liaison a call, get an ETA."

Malcolm nodded and left. He was back thirteen minutes later, looking perturbed. "Commander, we have a problem."

* * *

The Liaison's expression, even on the Ready Room's computer screen, radiated puzzlement. "As I told your Communications Officer," he said slowly, allowing for the simultaneous translator to keep up, "your captain and First Officer left orbit on schedule, about ten hours ago. That's more than three times as long as it should take to make the journey from The World to your ship."

"I understand that, Geren Liaison," Trip replied, using the alien's official title, "but we don't even have the shuttle on sensors. Maybe they were delayed?"

Geren leaned forward and seemed to tap a few buttons. "I'm looking at the flight plan now, and it indicates that the shuttle departed two, er, minutes ahead of time, and that its trajectory was normal." He peered more closely at his information. "No weather delays, no flight path congestion. Are you sure you haven't simply _not_ been notified of Captain Archer's return . . . ?"

"I'd know if a ship docked with _Enterprise_," Trip answered, a bit testily, flicking an irritated glance toward Malcolm, "and anyway, the captain wouldn't come on board without heading straight to the Bridge."

"My apologies," said Geren, picking up on Trip's annoyance. "I didn't mean to suggest anything." Now the alien looked genuinely distressed. "This is quite a problem. I will have to notify Darala. Perhaps it is a simple oversight . . ." he added hopefully.

"Geren Liaison," Malcolm interrupted, "would you kindly send me the shuttle's anticipated flight plan? If they are off course, perhaps we can recreate their actual flight path from here."

"I'm sending the data as we speak," Geren replied, "and please, inform me at once if you learn anything." He broke the connection, still looking worried.

Trip downloaded the incoming flight data onto a PADD and handed it to Malcolm. "Have Travis handle this. Somebody else can babysit the helm." He rubbed his forehead, just above his right eyebrow. _And the day had been going so smoothly, too_. "Where the hell could they have gotten to?"

Malcolm seemed to push aside his normal pessimism to offer, "Well, even if they're having mechanical difficulties, the captain's a fine pilot, and T'Pol is, well, T'Pol. Let's just take it one logical step at a time."

Trip didn't answer. He was too busy reflecting that Malcolm's rare optimism was contingent on the captain and T'Pol still being alive.

* * *

Travis Mayweather was more than just a competent helmsman. He was a navigation aficionado. All those years on a cargo ship had taught him the value of knowing how to go over, under, around, or through any part of space. So in Trip's estimation, nobody on board _Enterprise_ was more equipped to find the needle that was Darala's shuttle in a haystack made up of several million kilometers of space.

Within two hours, Travis commed the Ready Room, announcing that he had mapped out the most likely position of the missing shuttle. Trip sprinted to the Situation Console, where Travis and Malcolm waited. Hoshi was there, too; as Communications Officer, she would shortly be monitoring every conceivable frequency for hails or, in a worse case, distress calls.

Travis put a map up onto the screen. "Based on the data from the flight deck at Ohm Derrea, that's the capital city, the shuttle took off at ten forty, our time. The captain and the commander were on board, along with Crewman Egawa, as well as one Shon L'os pilot and kind of a combination cabin steward-security guard. Take off was uneventful," he traced the plotted trajectory from the planet's surface with a short, blunt fingernail, "and they broke orbit at ten forty-three. Satellites picked them up here," he pointed, "and here. Nothing unusual." Now he changed the view from the green-blue planet to the star-speckled darkness of space. "They'd be out of range of the last satellite from here, and we wouldn't pick them up on short range – assuming we were scanning for them – for another ninety-three minutes."

"Were we scanning, Hoshi?" Malcolm asked.

"There was no reason to, Lieutenant," Hoshi answered, a little defensively. Malcolm just nodded, silent.

"Go on, Travis," said Trip. There was no point in indulging in _coulda-woulda-shoulda_ right now; their goal was to find the shuttle.

"Okay, so this solid line shows their course, assuming they followed the flight plan. Assume a minor course correction because of a weird little magnetic pocket here, so they'd be a bit wide of the mark at that point, but not by much." Travis magnified that part of the map. "And we know they never came in range of our scanners. Based on the route, the reported speed, and the flight plan, I think they are somewhere in . . . here." A square appeared on the star chart, three quarters of the way along the solid line. "My guess is that they encountered some mechanical difficulty, and maybe lost thrusters."

Trip studied the map. "We can't go to warp inside the system, so how long will it take us to get there?"

"Maybe two hours. But our scanners will pick them up – if they're there – long before that."

"If they're there," repeated Malcolm, having exhausted all of his optimism in his Ready Room conversation with Trip.

"No reason to think they're not," Trip said firmly. "Set a course, best speed."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered, and took off toward his post.

"Hosh," Trip continued, "start hailing them, see if we can pinpoint their position a little better. They may have drifted." He looked at Malcolm and saw the same urgency in the Tactical Officer's eyes that he himself felt. The two of them understood, probably better than anyone else, the horror of drifting, helpless and hopeless, in a shuttle without power or the means to communicate. They needed to locate the shuttle before the situation became dire.

Two hours and twelve minutes later, Reed signaled the Ready Room. "We're picking up a blip on short-range, but it's not where we thought it would be."

"On my way," said Trip.

Malcolm had already put the pink cloud onscreen. "We found the shuttle's exhaust trail. It looks like it went abruptly off-course and ended up in there. See that shadow, right at the edge?"

Trip peered at the view screen. Approximately five hundred kilometers away, just inside the strange pink cloud, he could just make out the shape of the ship, spinning gently. "What is that stuff?" he wanted to know. Ever protective of his engines, he didn't want to take Enterprise into anything that might damage the fragile warp system.

"It's ionized carbon, sir," Ensign Stackhouse, who had the Science station in T'Pol's absence, replied. Trip waited. Mayweather glanced around briefly, then turned his eyes back to his console.

Trip sighed. "Is it something I need to worry about, Ensign?" he prodded.

Stackhouse blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. "Uh, no, sir. I mean, you should modify the filters – I mean, _Engineering_ should modify the filters to, uh, compensate."

Trip counted to twenty silently. Archer never seemed to have this problem, at least not since those first awkward days of _Enterprise_'s tour. The captain seemed able to simply look at T'Pol, ask one terse question, and have a solution suggested within seconds. But then again, T'Pol was logic personified, and she routinely operated at least two or three steps ahead of everybody else. After seven years, her ability to adapt to Archer's intuitive leaps was almost scary.

He missed T'Pol.

"Ensign, comm Engineering and tell them what they need to do. We may have to come in close to this cloud of . . . ionized carbon, and I'm not wild about having this stuff gunk up the reactor." He smiled slightly, trying to make the order sound less like a criticism and more like an observation.

"Yessir," Stackhouse said, diving for the comm control.

"Any distress calls?"

Hoshi pressed her receiver to her ear. "There's subspace static, not silence, which probably means the system's down. Could be the . . . ionized carbon," she added with a conspiratorial glance at Mayweather. "It's hard even to scan for life signs, but it's the same configuration as Darala's shuttle."

Trip exhaled sharply. "Okay, Travis, take us closer, but slowly. Hoshi, keep scanning. Get someone on the transporter. We may need to take them out that way. Whatever knocked out systems on the shuttle may very well affect the 'pods as well."

"Aye, sir," Hoshi said.

"Four hundred kilometers," Travis counted down. "Three hundred."

Reed had opened his mouth to comment, had gotten one syllable out, when there was a flash on the view screen. The tiny shuttle exploded into orange and blue fire, extinguished almost instantly by the vacuum. The resulting wave of energy was barely enough to register on _Enterprise_'s sensors, but everyone on the bridge was immediately galvanized.

"Transporter," Reed shouted into the comm., "lock on to any life signs and bring aboard."

There was a tense silence, then the voice of Lieutenant Hess, Trip's second. "Sir, there isn't anything to lock on _to_." Trip sent an agonized look toward Hoshi, who, white-faced, shook her head.

"Nothing, sir," she whispered.

Taking a step toward the view screen, Trip clutched the arm of the captain's chair – the chair that, unless all of his senses had deceived him, was now solely his responsibility. He shook his head, willing his mind to tell him differently. "Malcolm," he said hollowly, "scan for bio-matter." Reed held Trip's gaze for a moment, as unwilling as the commander to believe what had just happened. "Lieutenant," Trip said, and Malcolm dropped his eyes to his console, his hands hovering above it.

"Whatever was there has been . . . vaporized, sir. There's very little left."

"Analyze it, dammit," Trip snapped, uncharacteristically. "I want to know who-all was on that shuttle." It took a separate act of will to make each of the nine steps across the deck of the Bridge to the door leading to the Ready Room. "And get me Geren Liaison. _Now_."

The Liaison's face had lost all trace of color by thirty seconds into his conversation with a coldly angry Commander Tucker. "I do not understand how this could have happened," the alien said, obviously upset.

"This is an act of war," Trip stated. "I just wanna know who was involved in the ambush of that shuttle."

"Ambush?" Geren waited while his translating device yielded a definition of that term. If anything, he grew more agitated. "Commander Tucker, you cannot believe that the . . . that what happened to that shuttle was anything but an accident –"

"I _watched_ it explode, Liaison! _That was no accident_." Trip leaned toward the screen, menacingly. "If you persist in denying that this – this _outrage_ was anything but deliberate, I'll have no choice but to assume that the Carah Shon government perpetrated an unprovoked attack, with the intent of murdering Captain Archer, Commander T'Pol, and Crewman Egawa. That's _war_, Liaison, and I assure you, Starfleet does not run from a fight."

"Darala has no intention – none at all – of warring with Starfleet! Please, please, we need time to investigate this! We have nothing but peaceful intentions toward you. You must believe me," the Liaison begged.

"Would you like me to show you the explosion again, Liaison? Because the only thing I believe is the evidence I saw with my own eyes." Trip sat back, his voice dripping ice. "You say this wasn't Darala's doing. I want names, Liaison. I want whoever did this delivered to me, tied up in a neat little package with a bow. I don't get some damn answers, I don't get some names, Starfleet will send everything it has. You want a fight? I'll bring one to you." Trip reached out and ended the connection, cutting the Liaison off, mid-word. He propped his elbows on the desk – on _the captain's_ desk – and ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

"That was a little harsh, don't you think?" Malcolm observed dryly from the couch. Grey eyes met blue. "You probably could have told him that none of our people were aboard that shuttle when it blew."

The corner of Trip's mouth tipped up briefly. "Ah, that's not nearly as dramatic, Malcolm. And I want him scared shitless. That's what gets results."

"Speaking of results," Malcolm responded, "I ran mine past Phlox, just to be certain. He concurs that the only bio-matter from that explosion belonged to Carah Shon L'os. Nothing human, nothing Vulcan. Whatever happened to the captain and T'Pol, and Crewman Egawa, they weren't on board when that ship exploded." Malcolm handed Trip a PADD. "Travis reconstructed the exhaust trail of the shuttle. Right after it goes into the cloud, another trail shows up. From the proximity, it's clear that the two ships dock, and then the second ship takes off. The shuttle drifts closer to the edge of the cloud, and that's where we find it."

"Pretty convenient timing," Trip mused. "That it would wait until we show up before it blows."

"Almost as if someone rigged it to go just to give us a show," Malcolm added.

"Or blew it by remote." He handed the PADD back. "They knew we'd backtrack, trace the likely course of the shuttle and end up right here."

"And when we get here, with the ion cloud futzing the scanners, they detonate the ship, and leave us thinking that all souls aboard are lost."

"How old is that second trail?"

"Hard to tell, all the debris contaminates the readings. I'd say eight, nine hours, maybe." Malcolm paused. There was one more bit of bad news that Trip didn't know. "Commander. That second ship, it went to warp."

"Nine hours ago," Trip said sourly. "Pretty damn big head start. Get Travis working on a pursuit course."

"Already done."

"God, Malcolm, under any other circumstance, I'd be ecstatic to have you as my First Officer." Trip clenched his fists impotently. "But right now, I'd rather have the Cap'n and T'Pol back instead." The door chimed. "Come in," he sighed, hoping for some good news.

Ensign Sato stepped in hesitantly. Even though she was a Bridge Crew member and therefore considered one of the Senior Staff, she nevertheless rarely entered the captain's Ready Room. Trip smiled at her encouragingly as she looked around the tiny space. "Sir," she greeted, addressing Trip but taking in Malcolm as well with a glance, "I picked up a transmission just before the explosion." She held up the Universal Translator. "I can't identify the language, though - there's nothing like it in the database."

"Maybe a code?" Malcolm suggested.

Hoshi nodded. "I'd say so, sir." She turned on the UT and it emitted a series of beeps and clicks. "See, there's a pattern there that doesn't usually show up in spoken or written conversation."

"If you say so," Trip replied. "Any idea where it was aimed?"

"There's no way to tell, really, but I'd say whoever it was for is pretty close."

Malcolm looked at her sharply. "Why's that?"

"Because the signal wasn't very strong at all." Hoshi considered. "Whoever received that signal had to be within four, maybe five light years."

Trip looked at Malcolm. "Somewhere in the Carah Shon system, you think?"

Reed nodded slowly. "Could be. Or could be an entirely different direction."

The commander stared for a moment out of the porthole, thinking. He wished he possessed a fraction of Archer's gut instinct, that indefinable feeling even the captain couldn't explain, that caused him on so many occasions to make a seemingly random decision between two equally plausible - or terrible - choices. Were the answers they sought found somewhere in the wake of the mystery ship, now nine hours ahead of them, or back on the planet?

"Have Travis set a course back to Carah Shon - and tell him that we're not docking at the outpost this time. We're gonna orbit that rock until we find our people." Hoshi scurried out with a "Yes, sir!" The door shut behind her, and Trip slid into the desk chair, pulling up the recording of the shuttle explosion to study yet again.

"Commander," Malcolm said gently, "Trip. There is still the possibility that – that they are indeed gone."

"Cap'n always comes back," Trip answered with steely determination without glancing up. "Suicide missions, time travel, torture – I have said goodbye to him more times than I can count. But he always –" Trip took a second to wrestle his voice back under control, "Cap'n _always_ comes back, Malcolm."

The Tactical Officer stood, sizing up the Chief Engineer, his friend. "Aye, sir," he agreed quietly, and let himself out of the Ready Room, preparing to look for three very small needles in one infinite haystack.


	4. Lab Rat Conversations

**Chapter Four - Lab Rat Conversations**

There were no bars on the cell door. The bright lights seemed to come from everywhere, yet the absence of sound made him feel like he had cotton in his ears. He was sprawled, half-on, half-off of a thin mat, face down. With a groan, he turned over, trying to focus. T'Pol slowly came into his line of vision, seated in a corner with her knees drawn up. She was watching him carefully.

"T"Pol," he croaked, his throat dry and scratchy from the chemicals used to knock him out, "Are you okay?"

She moved forward slowly, crossing the ten foot wide distance between them, stopping an arm's length away. He could see the still-livid bruises on her face; his First Officer had certainly put up a fight. She didn't answer right away, which worried him. She seemed distant, confused. He wondered how long they'd been apart and what they'd done to her. "I am not harmed," she said, and he didn't have the energy to disbelieve her.

"Where's Egawa?"

"I have not seen him since we were on the shuttle," T'Pol answered quietly. "I believe I heard his voice earlier, while you were still unconscious. I think he is being held elsewhere."

"But you don't know that for sure."

She pursed her lips. "I believe it to be the case," she said stubbornly.

He raised his head to look around the small room. There was no furniture, only the two mats on the floor. No windows, either, and he couldn't even tell where the door was. The walls were smooth, seamless, and a bright yellow, which intensified the light. He was a bit cold, so he knew T'Pol must be very uncomfortable. He had no blanket to offer her.

Archer heaved himself to his hands and knees, noting with some chagrin the rips in his uniform. Metallic bands encircled each of his wrists; T'Pol had a set as well. He took several deep breaths, relieved to find that his ribs felt only bruised, not broken. "How long have you been here?" he asked, his voice raspy. "Approximately seventeen standard hours," T'Pol answered without hesitation. "Although they appear to be attempting to alter our circadian rhythms."

Archer shook his head slightly. "I don't even know what the hell that means," he muttered, checking his various pockets for his communicator which was, of course, not to be found.

T'Pol sighed. "The lights get dimmer and brighter at approximately four hour intervals. I believe this is intended to interfere with our bodies normal rhythm of darkness and light. Sleep and wakefulness," she clarified.

"Followed by sleep deprivation, no doubt. Classic prisoner of war tactic," Archer observed, sitting up with a little difficulty. "Nice to know that some things are universal." He wasn't optimistic, however, that the rules of prisoner treatment, still quaintly referred to on Earth as the Geneva Conventions, would apply here. As if on cue, the lights became substantially brighter, confirming their captors' intention to keep them from sleeping. The yellow light penetrated Archer's closed eyelids; even holding his hand over his eyes provided no relief.

Not one to sit still for long, Archer prowled the cell for the next (according to T'Pol) half hour, running his hands along smooth walls, exploring every inch of the floor for some clue to this room. T'Pol watched impassively, finally informing him that she had made the same examination, three times, without success, since she'd been there.

"Isn't the light bothering you?" Archer growled, already nursing a headache from squinting against the glare.

"If you'll recall, Vulcans have an inner eyelid that protects us from harsh sunlight," T'Pol answered, and her voice struck him as strange.

He stopped in front of her and crouched down, placing a hand lightly on her arm. "What is it?"

T'Pol's response was cut off by the opening of the door. Four large bipedal beings, covered from head to foot in some sort of protective garb, rushed into the room. Two of them restrained T'Pol; the others took Archer to the floor. He struggled for all he was worth, teeth gritted, while strong fingers tugged open his jumpsuit and black buttoned jersey. There was a strong humming sound, and suddenly he felt the metallic bracelets at his wrists attach themselves firmly to the floor. One captor pinned his legs, while the other moved its fingertips over his exposed neck and chest.

It backed off for a moment, and then pulled a small black case from a pocket. Extracting a tiny device, a squat pyramid about a centimeter on each side, it smoothed the skin over Archer's left pectoral muscle, then pressed the device there. Archer felt a sting, a little stronger than a pinprick, and then the odd sensation of something taking hold under the skin. After a moment, he realized that it felt exactly like having an intravenous needle inserted, a procedure he had only experienced a few times in his life.

He looked up, unable to move, unable to mask his fear, but the captor's face, behind a soft mesh covering, was utterly unreadable.

"What do you want from us?" he demanded in a faint voice. His captor simply regarded him silently, then rose and stepped away. Another being entered the room bearing two small bowls, and set one next to each mat. It touched its covered mouth, then each bowl, then its mouth again. The captors withdrew, leaving Archer still pinned like a butterfly to the floor. He moved his head slightly and saw that T'Pol had been restrained by one wrist band at the wall, but as soon as the cell door closed, she was free.

She scrambled over toward him and tugged first at his wrists. The shackles didn't budge. Then she examined the catheter now attached to Archer's chest. An experimental pull caused Archer to cry out in pain. She pressed around the site with gentle fingertips. A drop of blood oozed out.

Archer felt another buzz move up his arms, and tested the manacles again. This time he was able to lift his wrists from the floor. He realized that he could be incapacitated at any time, anywhere in the room.

T'Pol sat back on her heels. "I can't remove this device without causing you harm," she said.

Archer raised his eyebrows at her. "Well, then I would suggest you don't remove it, Commander." To emphasize the point, he tugged his jersey closed and buttoned it, then zipped his jumpsuit to a reasonable level. The bowl near him caught his eye, and he picked it up.

It contained about a half liter of water and a lump of white powder. He sniffed it - no odor. He stirred it with his finger, but the powder refused to dissolve. "Think this is food?" he asked his Science Officer. It looked like shaving powder to him, but he didn't think these beings were interested in their prisoners' personal hygiene.

T'Pol studied it, then cautiously took a sip. "It is edible, at least," she said, and as Archer drank a bit and screwed up his face in response, added, "although its taste leaves something to be desired."

"You could have warned me," Archer pouted, steeling himself to consume the whole amount. One thing they taught you in captivity training was not to refuse food or water, even in a hostage situation. Of course, those instructors had never found themselves in a Klingon prison, facing a plateful of raw, hairy _targ_, either, he reflected ruefully. The powder coated the inside of his mouth, bitter and chalky, and the water turned it into a sticky paste. It had no flavor whatsoever, but vaguely reminded him of the protein shakes he used to drink as a student athlete in college. It didn't make it any easier to swallow, but he forced it down. He was gratified to see T'Pol drinking hers, as well. Whatever nutritional benefit the substance might provide would certainly come in handy if they ever got a chance to escape.

"I don't believe this is a prison facility, or that we are being held for ransom," T'Pol said, out of the blue, setting her bowl carefully down next to her mat.

Archer froze, his mind automatically retreating to those ancient stories of alien abduction and crop circles left in Earth corn fields. "What makes you say that?" he asked quietly. T'Pol never speculated, and she had very little imagination. Still, he hoped against hope that her belief would be groundless.

Before she answered, she pushed up the sleeve of her suit. Four distinct needle marks, set in a precise square, marred the smooth skin of her arm. "I believe we may be part of a medical or scientific experiment. They've drawn blood," she explained, "several times. On the last occasion, I was not completely unconscious. I heard a conversation that I did not understand, but the room I was in was unmistakably a laboratory of some sort. The next thing I knew, I woke up in this room." Archer studied his own forearm; he had a matching set of puncture marks. His hand drifted up toward the intravenous catheter - for now he was convinced that that was its purpose - but stopped short of touching it.

"And I have been . . . examined, as well," T'Pol added guardedly. Her tone, her posture, and her unspoken distress made it crystal clear to Archer what she meant. If she had been human, he would have crawled across the floor to her and held her in his arms. But she wasn't, and he knew her too well, so he did the opposite. Seating himself on the mat, as far across the room from her as he could get, he asked again, "Are you okay?"

Again she replied, "I am not harmed."

He believed her even less this time.

For the next hour, by T'Pol's reckoning, the two officers labored over every detail either one could remember about their capture. They decided that the cloud phenomenon had been a trap, and that Darala's pilot and security team had likely been disposable accomplices in the kidnapping plot. They speculated about why they had been taken, and what might be happening even now to Egawa. As rage bubbled up inside him, Archer hoped for the sake of every being in this facility – whatever, wherever it might be – that his crewman had not been harmed.

His vengeful thoughts were cut off as the door opened quietly. The captor with the black case, whom he'd already begun to think of as Lab Tech, approached him as two others, Flunky One and Flunky Two, loomed over T'Pol. Lab Tech pushed him down and opened his shirt once more. Archer shoved Lab Tech away violently, instinct taking over, but was brought up short by a pained sound from T'Pol. He froze immediately, and looked over at her. Flunky One seemed to make sure he was watching, then shocked T'Pol again with the prod it was holding.

Archer got the message. Slowly, he lowered himself back down to his mat and kept himself still, palms flat on the floor at his sides, as Lab Tech inserted a hypo into the catheter and pressed the plunger. He felt the medication, the drug, whatever it was, snake coldly into his system. Almost immediately, his heart began to pound uncomfortably. Lab Tech studied a scanner about the size of a deck of playing cards for several minutes, then, apparently satisfied, carefully placed everything back into the case and left. The Flunkies followed.

It was a long moment before Archer could move his limbs. He felt, impossibly, both lethargic and revved up at the same time.

T'Pol knelt beside him, placing her hands on either side of his face. "Captain, can you hear me? Are you all right?" Perhaps it was the after-effect of the shock punishment that made her voice sound so concerned.

"I'm okay," Archer managed, although he felt anything but. The constriction in his chest eased a little, and he gulped for air. "What . . . the hell . . . ?" he demanded breathlessly, more to let off a bit of steam than expecting T'Pol to have an answer.

She placed her left hand flat on his chest. "Lie still. Your heart is racing."

"They injected me with something," Archer told her. "I feel . . . odd." T'Pol didn't need him to tell her that; she could feel his heart fluttering and measured it, she reported, at one hundred ninety two beats per minute, way above human normal. Gradually, though, it began to drop, and Archer's shallow breathing became more regular. "Did they hurt you with that thing?" he asked after a moment.

She sat back on the floor and scooted away a few inches and ignored the question. "I may have been mistaken when I said that _we_ were the subjects of an experiment." Her eyes met his. "More accurately, I believe _you_ are. I could not read the language on the scanner, but your reaction to the drug speaks for itself." Archer sat up, once again tugging his clothing closed. His modesty would have been amusing under different circumstances. "It appears," she went on, "that they are manipulating your endocrine system." At his blank look, she explained further. "The substance in the hypo was most likely a form of adrenaline, which is what caused your tachycardia."

Archer began clenching and unclenching his right fist to dispel the phantom ache in his arm and shoulder. "I'm not having a heart attack, T'Pol," he said.

"Not this time," she responded.

He glared at her and thought to himself, _Can't you just once say something encouraging? _"Why would they only be experimenting on me? That doesn't make any sense. You're here, too."

"Humans have a precariously balanced chemical structure, vulnerable to outside interference. Vulcan physiology is much more mentally controlled."

"Of course it is," Archer snorted bitterly. "You're _so_ much more evolved than we are."

T'Pol ignored that. There were other matters much more important than his human ego. "Captain, an adrenaline overdose could kill you. The excessive light and interrupted circadian rhythm are also ways of influencing your body's systems. Prolonged stress on the endocrine system, especially, can be fatal. We cannot allow them to continue this experiment."

Archer saw where she was going with this. "Don't fight them, T'Pol, that's an order." He remembered the sound of the electricity from the prod hitting her body, and how her elegant frame had spasmed with the force of it. He had no doubt that her purpose here – at least in part – was to keep him in line. He didn't intend to give them any reason to hurt her again, and if that meant cooperating with their sick experiments, then so be it. "That's an _order_, T'Pol," he repeated for good measure.

"_Aye_, sir," she answered shortly, using naval jargon, which meant she was ticked off. He couldn't help feeling a little pleased about that.

The next time Lab Tech showed up, Archer made a point of lying down on the mat. He even unbuttoned his jersey to show that he was not going to resist. T'Pol simply sat on her mat, cross-legged, with Flunky One hovering over her.

But the plan was different this time, as Archer was jerked up into a sitting position by Flunky Two. Lab Tech unzipped his jumpsuit all the way, and began to remove it. It took considerable control for Archer not to struggle as the sleeves of his jersey were peeled down his arms, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Flunky Two handed him a baggy shirt made of a yellowish material that felt like wool – soft, shapeless, and warm. Wordlessly, he tugged it on over his head. As his boots, uniform, and briefs were tugged away, he pulled his knees up to his chest and waited for trousers. After a moment, he looked up. Lab Tech stood over him, but it didn't have a pair of pants in its hands. Instead it was holding an opaque wide-necked bottle and a long grey tapered tube.

Archer went perfectly still. There was no doubt in his mind what that was. All thoughts of non-resistance flew out of his head as he backed up three or four inches until he was pressed against the wall. "No way. Uh-uh."

"Captain."

He was being irrational. He had no chance of stopping these beings from doing whatever they wanted to him, including inserting that tube. He couldn't hold out much longer anyway; his bladder had its limits. He knew all that, and still . . .

"Captain."

Even if Lab Tech were alone, it would only have had to engage the magnetic wristbands, and Archer would have been helpless anyway, naked legs flailing, while T'Pol watched –

"Captain. . ."

T'Pol. She was watching, and, worse yet, if he didn't cooperate, they would use her to corral him into submission. _You are the captain of the first Warp Five starship, Jon - act like it._ Pinning a non-threatening expression on his face, he put his hand out slowly, as if greeting a strange dog. Lab Tech didn't move, and he was able to grasp the bottle firmly. He slowly pulled it out of Lab Tech's four-fingered grip, and with a nervous grimace, said, "I can do this by myself."

Lab Tech just stood there, eyes hidden, but its whole aspect was one of curiosity, as if wondering what the lab rat was going to do next. Archer rose slowly, grateful that the baggy shirt actually fell to mid-thigh. Keeping his back against the smooth wall, he sidled to the right, toward the rounded corner, then turned away just enough to shield himself from the room.

Embarrassed beyond words, he concentrated on aiming precisely into the bottle. When he was finished, he handed it back. Lab Tech tilted its head a degree, then flicked its wrist twice.

Archer waited a beat, then said, clearly, "Pants." He indicated his bare thigh.

Flunky Two produced a folded piece of cloth, which turned out to be, thankfully, a pair of trousers made of the same soft yellowish material as the shirt. Archer took the garment with a gruff thanks, making no move to put it on. Lab Tech flicked its wrist again. Archer got the feeling that the motion signaled amusement.

When Flunky One handed T'Pol her own bottle, Archer felt a tiny sense of satisfaction. Apparently, their captors were sufficiently convinced that the prisoners were potty trained. He turned his face toward the wall once more to give his First Officer some privacy, and pulled on the pants.

To distract Lab Tech's attention, Archer spoke up. "Where is my crewman? Why isn't he with us?"

Lab Tech regarded him with what could have been interest, scanned him with the small device, then turned away to deal with its specimen.

"Hey, I'm _talking_ to you," Archer growled, feeling heat invade his skin. "What have you done with him?" He took two steps toward Lab Tech, before he felt the nudge of Flunky One's shock prod.

"Don't fight them," T'Pol reminded him quietly. Archer pulled back abruptly, retreating reluctantly to his mat. Only T'Pol's steady gaze kept him from launching himself at Lab Tech. He wondered what the hell was wrong with him. He opened his hands in what he hoped was a non-aggressive gesture. "Please," he said, summoning a wan smile, "I just want to see my crewman, see that he's okay."

Lab Tech didn't pause this time. It simply packed its supplies into its case and left, guarded all the way out the door by the Flunkies.

Archer leaned his head back against the wall, breathing deeply. He opened his eyes after a moment to find T'Pol crouching in front of him, her expression concerned. "We cannot let them continue this experiment," she reiterated. "You can feel the effects already."

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Archer had no choice but to agree.

Despite the bright lights, exhaustion finally overtook Archer and he slept for a few hours. It was anything but restful, however, as his dreams were filled with the strange music that had been haunting him since his last night on Carah Shon. He awoke flushed and uncomfortable, desperately hoping that he had not done or said anything in his sleep that he might regret. T'Pol showed no sign of awkwardness, but that was no guarantee that he hadn't embarrassed himself. She had a special poker face for those times he humiliated himself in her presence. She'd never comment, unless it could become a teachable moment.

He sat up and rubbed his gritty eyes with his thumb and middle finger. T'Pol sat, cross-legged, seemingly in exactly the same position she'd been in when he'd fallen asleep, but now dressed in a shirt and trousers identical to his own. "How long have I been out?" he asked groggily.

"Approximately four hours and twenty-two minutes," she replied.

"You should have woken me sooner," he said.

"You needed the rest." T'Pol gestured to the empty bowl next to her right knee. "The food we have been consuming appears to have an adequate balance of nutrients, but very little caloric content, not nearly the amount required by the human body."

"You don't seem to be suffering from the lack of calories," Archer observed, a little tartly.

"Vulcans require less food-derived energy to function."

"Naturally." Archer was surprised himself by the bitter tone in his voice. "Yet another way Vulcans are more _evolved_ than humans."

T'Pol studied him for a moment, the picture of calm. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that I am experiencing a lack of energy as well?"

Archer picked up his own bowl of nasty paste and then set it back down in disgust. "Yeah," he said, half pouting and feeling ridiculous.

"Our circumstances are affecting me negatively, too," T'Pol said, sounding almost comforting. She held his gaze with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.

Archer smiled thinly. "Don't mind me, I'm just a little cranky."

"It _is_ difficult to tell the difference sometimes," T'Pol said gently. The door slid open then, cutting off Archer's rueful laugh.

Lab Tech walked in, with its Flunkies arrayed behind it, blocking the door. It carefully placed a cup of water in front of Archer, and another in front of T'Pol.

Archer took a deep breath. "Where is my other crewman?" Lab Tech merely watched him. "Tell me!" he demanded fiercely, through clenched teeth.

"Captain," T'Pol warned. Archer wrenched himself back under control. He carefully reached out and lifted up his water cup. Placing a hand on his chest, he gestured with the cup and set it back down. Then he reached over for T'Pol's cup, pointed at her, and set it down next to his own. Without breaking (what he assumed was) eye contact with Lab Tech, he reached for T'Pol's empty bowl, and set it down in line with the two cups. Indicating the bowl, he opened his hand. "My crewman, Egawa."

Lab Tech didn't move, but its wrist flicked once in interest. Archer went through the entire demonstration again, as exactly as he could.

After the third time, Lab Tech moved forward slowly, like a cowboy approaching a skittish colt. It picked up T'Pol's cup, tipped it toward her, then set it down gently. It pointed to Archer and then to his cup. When it got to the empty bowl, it hesitated, then grasped it delicately. Before Archer could say a word, one of the Flunkies strode forward and snatched the bowl away. Impatiently, the Flunky shoved Archer backwards and then flipped the bowl into a corner with enough force to shatter it.

Archer stared at the broken dish in shock, then launched himself across the tiny cell and took Lab Tech down. "You son of a _bitch_!" he shouted, wrapping his hands around Lab Tech's neck. Dimly, he heard T'Pol's urgent voice, but the next thing he felt was the slap of electricity entering his body. He convulsed, his hands still locked, and now he was physically unable to let go. As the seconds passed, the Flunkies stabbed him with the electrical energy prods again and again, apparently unaware that their punishments were having a completely opposite effect than they intended.

He was senseless by the time they stopped, foggily aware of soft hands running up and down his arms, a pressure on his chest, disconnected words urging him to come back, to open his eyes, to stay. The words slowly assembled themselves into phrases, then full thoughts. T'Pol was gently mopping his face with a damp cloth, coaxing him back to the world.

Shuddering, Archer pressed his lips together, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. T'Pol sat back on her heels, worry evident in her expression. That scared Archer more than anything else could have. Little by little, the Vulcan's eyes became shuttered, until the impassive mask was back in place. "That was foolish," she observed, her tone almost normal.

"They've killed Jamey, T'Pol," he said wearily, over the slam of his pulse at his temples.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "You don't know that. You can't even be certain that they understood your question. There are a number of things their response could have meant, Captain."

Archer heaved an arm up to cover his eyes. It felt as heavy and foreign as a tree branch. "Why haven't we seen him, then, T'Pol, after all this time? Why are you and I together, and Egawa is . . . somewhere else? Why not keep all of us in the same cell?"

"Will getting yourself killed help you to obtain answers to those questions?" T'Pol retorted, handing him the cloth. "Your risk of suffering a fatal heart attack is already . . . very high. I've detected an irregular heartbeat. Your lack of control is a further symptom that concerns me."

He debated whether to bring it up; on the one hand, it was only fair that she have the full picture. On the other, though, what was he going to say? _I've been having sex dreams about somebody I can't identify, and that's why I'm all hot and bothered? _Given the choice, he figured he'd rather just have the heart attack.

"You're right," he said finally. "I haven't been myself. I'll make a better effort to pull myself back together." He sat up with a groan, flexing his numb right hand. "Okay," he sighed. "Let's go over what we know again. There's gotta be some clue to who these beings are, and what the hell is going on."

His First Officer resumed her cross-legged position, nodding in agreement. "We should start at the beginning of our Carah Shon mission." But after several hours of combing through every detail provided by their individual memories, from the time they'd left_ Enterprise_ until each of them woke up in the cell, they could conclude only that Lab Tech's medical or scientific experiment was not yet finished.


	5. Questions, Answers, and More Questions

**Author's Note: Bad language alert.**

**Chapter Five - Questions, Answers, and More Questions**

Commander Tucker stepped out of the shuttlepod into the sticky, humid air of Carah Shon. It was just before the evening rain, and the air pressure was at its oppressive height, worse even than the Everglades minutes before a thunderstorm. He waited until Reed disembarked, then commented, "This heat, man, it's a killer."

Reed shrugged. "My parents live in Malaysia," was all he said.

Trip couldn't suppress a grimace; he felt as if he were being smothered by a wet woolen blanket. Movement was a chore as he tried to hustle into the Grand Reception Hall.

The air conditioning there felt like a blessing, even as it turned his moist uniform clammy and cold. Tonight there were no ceremonial guards, nor long lines of diplomats straining for a glimpse of the offworlders. Instead, Geren Liaison seemed intent on sneaking Tucker and Reed into the building through back doors and dark, circuitous corridors. Their stealthy arrival told Trip that the government was operating in crisis mode. The halls were deserted and silent, ominous in contrast with just a few days before.

Although he had not previously visited Carah Shon with the other crew, Reed kept his attention grimly on the task at hand not distracted by the sumptuous surroundings. He and Trip followed Geren and his two aides in single file, wordlessly, until the Liaison finally unlocked a set of doors and led them into a massive room shaped like a vault. Its walls were bare of decoration, save for twelve dinner-plate-sized discs situated at regular intervals around the room, half a meter from the ceiling. The officers watched as Geren circled the room engaging what were obviously individual force fields. As the last field triggered on with a low buzz, Geren turned to Tucker. "This room is impervious to scanning, and nothing we say can be overheard or intercepted."

Trip ran his eyes over the vaulted ceiling. "You're sure about that?" It seemed an awfully big room to secure fully.

"When The People's government must meet in secret, it does so here." He gestured to a massive unmarked door. "The passage behind there leads directly to the place where She Who Is resides. The penalty for unauthorized entry into these rooms, whether physically or otherwise, is death."

Trip exchanged looks with Reed. The security officer nodded almost imperceptibly, satisfied for the moment. "Will Darala be joining us?"

Geren visibly hesitated. "The One is under close supervision, due to her condition. When we have more information, we will inform her of the situation. She should not be upset at the moment."

Trip didn't know what "condition" Geren was talking about, but if it didn't have to do with finding the captain and T'Pol, he wasn't interested. "Tell me what you've found out so far," he said.

Geren blinked at his aide, who leaned forward and activated a holographic 3D image within a rectangle measuring about five square feet in the center of the room. The scene depicted was one of the many receptions attended by Archer and T'Pol, and Trip could see the captain, but not the First Officer, at the edge of the image. "Center and enhance," Geren said, and the picture shifted to a closer view of the captain, with the Vulcan standing at his right shoulder.

"There's Egawa," Reed said, pointing to the row behind Archer.

"When was this taken?" Trip asked, as the image began to move in real time, following Archer across the room as he met and greeted dignitaries, looking drained and worn out even in projection.

"This was your captain's first evening on The World. Here he is meeting with the Western Guild, artists and craftspeople, mainly. This event ended just before dawn." Trip made a sympathetic noise. Geren went on, blinking at his aide again to advance to the next projection. "Here is the midday reception, following the morning's legislative session," the image advanced again, "and that evening's entertainment."

Trip noticed that the captain appeared flushed and exhausted as he walked the length of the room to stand by T'Pol, as if he had just finished strenuous exercise. He watched as Archer grabbed a glass and drained it as soon as it had been scanned.

"Wait," Reed said abruptly. "Go back to the first one. Now the second. And…" The security officer stepped as close as he could to the image without breaking the plane. "There," he pointed, "the gentleman in the blue tunic. He's in all three scenes. Who is he?"

Geren blinked slowly, a satisfied smile. "You are very observant, Lieutenant. That is a minor dignitary named Aloh Jin Sava. He is sometimes a businessman, sometimes a politician. All the time not to be trusted, in my opinion." The frozen image grew more clear under the aide's manipulation. "We've suspected for some time that Jin Sava has been plotting against the government, but so far we have had little success in uncovering the scheme."

"What does this have to do with our captain and First Officer's disappearance?" Trip asked.

"I believe this man links the two." With his index finger, Geren zoomed the image to focus on a mousy little man standing in Egawa's enormous shadow. His face was pinched, and, if Trip was reading the expression correctly, utterly stressed. At the moment of this freeze-frame, he was glancing off to the side, which made him look, by human standards, devious and guilty.

"This is Jin Sava's, er, nephew? The son of one's mother's sister?"

"Cousin," Trip supplied.

"Yes. Arat Atanoma is Jin Sava's cousin, by means of their mothers. Atanoma was your captain's guide during his stay on The World."

"If he was assigned as Captain Archer's guide during this mission, wouldn't that mean that he was highly trusted?" Reed asked. "I would hope that anyone put in charge of the health and safety of visiting diplomats would warrant the closest background scrutiny imaginable."

Geren looked for a moment as if he would protest Reed's implication, then visibly restrained himself. "Is it the case on your world that one is judged by his family, and not on his own merits? Does a high-ranking officer such as yourself, Lieutenant, have no kin who disagree with the policies of Starfleet? And if so, should you be denied your position of trust?"

"I'm not interested in a philosophical debate," Reed snapped back. "I just want to know how dangerous this Atanoma fellow is."

Before Geren could respond angrily, Trip stepped between the two men. "Nobody has time for this. Whoever took our crew has half a day's head start on us. Save the bullshit posturing for later." He gestured at the image, now frozen. "Tell me about this Atanoma and his cousin. Where are they now?"

The Liaison took a deep breath. "I have dispatched agents to watch both of them, and authorized a search of their homes and offices. I will be notified immediately if either one attempts to leave the planet." Eyeing Reed, he added, "I have no reason to believe that Atanoma himself is involved in any way, but it is not out of the realm of possibility that Jin Sava may have used both his own and his cousin's connections to obtain information about your captain's flight plans."

"Assuming this Jin Sava is involved, what's his deal?" Trip asked. At Geren's blank look, he clarified, "You said he's been suspected of plotting against the government. What's his issue? Does he oppose specific policies? Does he want more power? Is he some kind of nut? What?"

The aide tapped some buttons on her datapad and handed it to Geren. Moving to the massive table that occupied one whole wall of the room, the Liaison skimmed the information for a moment before he responded. "Jin Sava has been vocal about continuing the exclusionary polices of the former government. She Who Is has been in power for – " he snapped his fingers at the aide, "- calculate!"

"Five years, three months, Terran standard," she replied promptly.

"- Five years and three months, as you measure it using your yellow sun." Trip and Reed glanced at each other. "There was a time when The People were inclined to explore, as you are now. We made loose alliances, for trade, mostly, and gathered information about our nearest neighbors. Then came the war, and He Who Was determined, wisely, in my opinion, that our openness would be our downfall. We had everything we needed right here – our science and technology was enough to sustain us. Our literature inspired us. We felt no further need to satisfy our curiosity about the galaxy.

"But She Who Is has pursued a different course. She is young, and, some say, impetuous. She has no memory of a war sparked by mistrust and miscommunication, nor did her mother who taught her. Her policies have been geared toward re-opening our boundaries, inviting strangers into our system. The debate in the legislature regarding the invitation extended to your Alliance was long and divisive."

"I didn't notice any hostility toward us while we were here," Trip observed. He didn't recall Archer mentioning anything about it, either.

Geren folded his hands on the table. "You would not," he replied. "There can be only one voice of the People, and that voice is Hers. Jin Sava would have _his_ voice heard as well. To be honest, he makes some very astute points. We must move slowly. We must negotiate first, rather than fling our doors open to everyone who fascinates us. But, in the end, Jin Sava's voice is not the voice of The One."

"Actions speak louder than words, though," Reed murmured absently, still studying the holographic image.

Geren blinked sadly in agreement as the translator rendered that axiom. Suddenly, the device at his belt chimed. "Excuse me, please," he said, reading the screen. His skin darkened to a mottled grey. "Atanoma has been apprehended trying to bribe a cruiser to transport him off-planet. An account book seized from his possession shows a sudden, large increase in his personal wealth. My agents are bringing him in for questioning."

"We're coming with you," Reed stated. Geren didn't even bother to argue, only unlocked the doors and led the way to the interrogation room.

* * *

The mousy man strapped to the chair stared resolutely at the blank wall in front of him. The Carah Shon agents, skilled in their field, systematically worked through the preliminary questions, receiving no verbal responses to any of them, but noting each variation in shade on the prisoner's skin, each twitch, each flicker of expression. From behind the two-way glass, something Reed had not expected to be a universal constant, four beings watched the interrogation with a mounting sense of urgency.

While the first agent asked questions, the second transmitted notes to Geren. So far, after one hour and twenty minutes, they had determined – without a word being spoken by the prisoner – that Atanoma had not worked alone, that he had information regarding the _Enterprise_ crew's disappearance, and that he was afraid for his life.

"Who paid you?" the agent asked again.

For the fifteenth time, Atanoma ignored him, but this time, he shifted his position slightly on the chair. _Not one of The People_, came the note from the agent.

"How the hell could he tell that?" Trip demanded.

"You are looking for human body language," Geren pointed out. "The People are very expressive, in our own way."

"Even so," Geren's aide offered, "he should speak now, before time runs out."

The questions flew faster, one on top of the other. It seemed the agents were not even waiting for responses, only reading the autonomic responses of the exhausted, scared, yet stubborn man before them.

_Who paid you the money?_

_Where are the outworlders?_

_On whose orders were you acting?_

_Are they alive?_

At this last query, Atanoma's body jerked. "He's breaking," the aide commented matter-of-factly. But as if to prove her wrong, the prisoner closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall.

"Oh, hell with this," Reed muttered. He turned to Geren. "I have some experience in interrogation techniques. It's obvious that he knows exactly what to expect from you. He's prepared to resist. Let me try."

Trip barely managed to bite back his astonishment at Reed's statement. It was easy to forget that the Lieutenant had had a life prior to this assignment to Enterprise. One of these days, he would pry the whole history out of the tight-lipped Brit.

Geren considered for only a moment. "Ordinarily that would be out of the question. But I can feel time slipping away, along with our chances of finding your shipmates." He held up a hand in warning. "Lieutenant. Physical coercion is not often used on The World."

"I won't need it," Reed said evenly, and opened the door to the interrogation room.

* * *

He was gratified that the prisoner seemed instantly thrown off-balance by his presence. He shunted aside the years of diplomacy he'd learned and observed in his seven years aboard _Enterprise_. As he stepped, catlike, into the room, he felt his essence shift. No longer was he the protective security chief, the ship's tactician in whose hands the captain placed every soul aboard when heading into battle. Now he was the hunter, the Malcolm Reed whose roots were older than Earth's first deep space mission. He was Operative Reed, scion of Section 31, whose tools were manipulation and half-truth.

From the inside of the interrogation cell, the two-way window looked like a solid wall. The material muted the sound of the door closing behind him. He stalked across the room, not acknowledging The People's agents. They were superfluous now. He locked eyes with Atanoma, and the prisoner could not look away. Good. A promising start.

The prisoner's defiance began to seep away after the first forty-eight minutes of utter silence. Reed barely blinked, did not move his eyes away from Atanoma's one millimeter. He sat completely still, within arm's reach, and stared, the tiniest smile playing at one corner of his mouth. Eighty minutes of stillness began to unnerve the Carah Shon L'os, for whom blinking was a form of speech. Reed waited, patient as a cobra, until Atanoma flicked a glance at one of the agents, still sitting quietly in a corner of the room. One more nervous dart of the eyes, two hours and fifty-five minutes in, and he was ripe.

"They have given me permission to kill you in the Terran way," Reed began conversationally. "I expect it will take five days." Fear leaped into the prisoner's eyes, and Reed smiled a little wider. "They have washed their hands of you, because you have just provoked a war and brought death raining down on The People. You don't know what that expression means, do you, 'washing one's hands.' It means they have given you to me, and they will not come to your rescue, no matter how much you beg."

"You are exactly as they described you, then," Atanoma said, almost against his will. Reed noticed that the man's hands gripped the arms of the chair, for strength, perhaps. It wouldn't help.

"As are you. Foolish. There is a reason _you_ are sitting here, trembling, and _they_ are not." Reed circled the chair slowly, watching the prisoner flinch as he moved out of his line of sight. "In the end, family doesn't matter, if the stakes are high enough."

"Jin Sava would never betray me!" Atanoma burst out.

Reed leaned in to whisper in his ear from behind. "He. Already. Has." Keeping his voice low and conversational, he went on. "The problem with politicians is that they like to hear themselves talk. And they talk to the wrong people." He eased back into Atanoma's vision. "His connections may save him. Yours will not."

Atanoma stared at the straps binding his hands. "There is nothing I can do to save myself?"

"It would be a shame if you didn't at least try," Reed said, injecting a hint of pity into his voice.

Ninety seconds ticked by, then Atanoma said, "They warned us about you. They predicted that you would come seeking treaties, offering exchanges. You would describe a great confederation of planets, of species, under the guise of unity.

"But it is all tricks, and lies. Look at the People of the Red Sun, they said, and the blue Ice People. Once they ruled their own systems, staked out their own boundaries. Until the Terrans persuaded them to give up key holdings and made their borders weak, binding them with treaties and promises. All the while the Terrans became stronger than any of them, seducing them out of their power."

It was all Reed could do to hold his gaze unwavering. He wanted to protest that humans had influenced Vulcans and Andorians – and even Tellarites – to everyone's benefit, that those treaties and agreements had ended centuries of devastating conflict. But he bit his tongue and stayed silent, face blank, waiting.

"Jin Sava saw it first. It was as he'd been saying all along. I . . . didn't take him as seriously as I should have all these years. But he was right. To see Darala . . . " He clamped his mouth shut.

"Who told you these things? Who warned you about us?"

"I never met them face to face. All I know is what they told Jin Sava, and what he told me."

"How convenient," Reed sneered. "Give me a name."

"He called them The People of the Bird."

Reed wanted to roll his eyes. The Carah Shon L'os tendency to vague up titles had serious drawbacks sometimes. He kept his voice even and calm. "What did you do with the off-worlders, Atanoma?"

"I – I don't know anything about that."

"Sure you do."

Atanoma's voice rose. "I don't! We decided to pay someone to set them adrift on the way back to your ship."

Reed shook his head ruefully. "And here you'd been doing so well, not lying to me." He sighed dramatically. "If you had paid someone to take Captain Archer off your hands, where did all that money in _your_ account come from?"

The prisoner's skin turned slate grey. His mouth opened and closed several times. He clearly had not expected the agents to find that account book. Grey skin turned to green, then to deep blue. "It was not my idea," he muttered.

"Of course it wasn't."

"I did not deal with them directly."

"Of course you didn't," Reed answered gently, with a sympathetic smile. "Who were they?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do," Reed insisted.

"I don't _know_!" Atanoma wailed. "This is not my fault! What were we supposed to do, seeing Darala touching an _alien_ intimately in public! Without shame! And to go in to him like a common _ssssssssssss _. . ." Reed tapped his translator, which for some reason had simply stopped functioning. But Atanoma's shrieked words galvanized the agents into action. They knocked over his chair, restraining him by force. One stuffed a wadded-up towel into his mouth, and the shrieks became choked grunts through the fabric. The door to the interrogation room flew open, and Geren Liaison and his aide futilely tried to pull the agents off of the bound and gagged prisoner. Failing that, they bundled Reed out of the room and shut the door.

"What the hell just happened?" Trip demanded, hands pressed against the window. "My translator just all of a sudden malfunctioned." From behind the two-way glass, there came a high, keening sound, which was abruptly cut off. The glass trembled as the agents dragged the hysterical, struggling prisoner out through a different door.

"As did mine," Reed added. "What did he say at the last, to cause everyone to freak out like that?"

"He insulted the One, which violates the translator's programming."

"Yes, but what did he _say_? It could be important."

"I will not desecrate my lips with that filth," Geren Liaison said firmly. "It was an abomination."

Reed rounded on him, suddenly sick to death of the endless diplomatic dance and the stubborn protocol of The People. "This may be the only clue we get out of the man to tell us what happened to Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol. And we are running out of time. Now, _what the bloody hell did he say_?"

Geren hesitated, clearly torn, then gestured to his aide, who slowly rewound the recording. She entered a code into the translating device and set it on the table. With a sigh, she reluctantly turned it on.

Reed's arctic English voice filled the room, "Yes, you do."

And then: "This is not my fault! What were we supposed to do, seeing Darala touching an _alien_ intimately in public! Without shame! To behave like a common whore, She Who Is has defiled herself and all of the people, a trash receptacle filled with Terran garbage – "

Trip's mouth hung open in shock. "That guy's nuts. We've spent all this time interrogating a crazy person?"

Reed looked at him blankly, sifting through the information in his mind. _. . . But She Who Is has pursued a different course. She is young, and, some say, impetuous . . . seducing them out of their power . . . We must negotiate first, rather than fling our doors open to everyone who fascinates us . . ._ And then, in Egawa's clear accent, he heard: _From the look of things this morning, Lieutenant, it appears that the captain was able to . . . smooth things over with Her Serenity . . . in Repose_.

"Oh, bloody hell," he groaned.

Trip turned to him with a questioning, "Malcolm?"

Reed had gone bone-white. "Oh, bloody fucking hell." And he took off running down the corridor, back toward the secret chamber.

When Geren unlocked the door to the vault, Reed charged in, straight toward the holographic player. "Did this thing record the captain's quarters?"

Geren hesitated. "I believe it would show the corridor, but it is not our practice to invade the privacy of our guests."

"Give me a straight answer," Reed snapped. "I don't care what your practice is, I want to know do you have any recordings of the captain's quarters?"

Unnerved, Geren fumbled with the controls. The holograph disappeared for a moment, then reassembled to show an empty corridor, not unlike the hall of a luxury hotel. It sped by in fast forward, the three _Enterprise_ crew members emerging from their suites full of energy, returning seconds later exhausted and drooping. Trip didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but Reed began to rewind and study the images frame by frame. Then he began to search images from different parts of the Residence.

Trip had just finished receiving a status update from Hoshi when Reed straightened abruptly. "Commander," he said quietly.

Trip walked over to stand by the Lieutenant's side. "Found something?"

Reed looked at him soberly. "I think we need to see Darala."

* * *

"The One is resting," the guard said for the fifth time.

Even Geren Liaison appeared to be growing impatient. "I am certain that She Who Is would wish to speak to these guests from _Enterprise_. We have been instructed to give them our utmost cooperation. Surely that applies to The One herself."

The security officer stationed outside Darala's private rooms regarded Geren with impudent disdain. "The One is resting," he repeated.

"I will see them," came an imperious voice from behind the guard. The heavy door cracked open, and the guard instantly moved aside. Darala eyed the party of four, the two humans in uniform, the Liaison and his aide, and took a step backward, opening the door wider. "You may come in."

Reed had expected an opulent chamber to house the unquestioned Head of State, something to rival or surpass the magnificent palaces of Europe and Asia. But glancing quickly around the chamber, he noticed the sheer functionality of the rooms. Certainly, the furnishing represented the best and most luxurious The World had to offer, but for all that, its main features were its practicality and comfort. Darala gestured for them to sit in a cluster of chairs clearly arranged for face to face conversation. She settled herself in the largest one, adjusting the gold filigree headpiece of her station.

"I am deeply affected to learn of your loss, Commander," Darala said, addressing herself to Trip, who wore the markings of higher rank. "My time with Captain Archer was very enjoyable."

"Darala," Geren began respectfully, "based on the investigation conducted so far by _Enterprise_, the humans have been convinced that the destruction of the shuttle was a ruse. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed believe that the captain and his companions have been kidnapped, and were not, as we believed, killed in space."

The One studied her Liaison for a moment without speaking, her face betraying nothing. "Explain."

"Ma'am," Trip began, "we analyzed the debris from the shuttle, and there was no trace of the captain, or Commander T'Pol, or Crewman Egawa. That is to say, there were no remains of them at all. I'm sorry to tell you that it appears that the crew of the shuttle were both killed in the explosion. We think that someone, and we haven't been able to identify who, rigged the ship to blow right when _Enterprise_ approached, to make it look like all souls were lost."

Darala looked skeptical. "Who would do such a monstrous thing, and why?"

"That we don't know either. But we think that the plot may have begun here, on The World."

She drew herself up stiffly. "There had better be significant evidence of such a plot, Commander. The People do not take lightly to being accused of abduction and murder." Geren fidgeted slightly next to Trip, as if worried that the wrath of The One would fall squarely on his head.

"We have a confession, of sorts," Reed put in quietly. Darala blinked, and he went on, "Arat Atanoma."

Try as she might, Darala could not hide her reaction. Her skin briefly went grey with shock. She sputtered for a bit, then protested, "Atanoma is a trusted member of the House. He would never involve himself in such business."

Reed didn't want to begin to address how mistaken Darala was about Atanoma. "Well, then, Your Serenity, we do have a question for you, if you don't mind. It would certainly help us to fit the pieces of the puzzle together better." Darala blinked in distraction, still reeling from the revelation of Atanoma's involvement. He took that as a signal to continue. "We've reviewed some of the palace surveillance and it seems, Ma'am, that after escorting Captain Archer to the guest wing, Atanoma then went directly to your rooms. And it appears very clearly that he's carrying Captain Archer's databadge. I must say, I'm completely at a loss to determine why a protocol guide would be, as it were, carrying guests' personal information, not to mention bringing it to your private rooms in the middle of the night."

Darala stared at the lieutenant, unmoving. For a moment, Reed thought she would deny it, and that he would have to show her the recording itself. He knew that if it came down to it, he'd just as soon not get into a factual dispute with a being regarded as somewhat higher than a queen and only a little lower than a goddess. He was fairly certain he would come out the loser. He braced himself.

The One did not answer the question. She drew herself up to her impressive height, her eyes like deadly lasers. She kept her gaze on Reed but addressed herself to Geren Liaison. "Escort these gentlemen out and see them safely on their way. Convey The People's profound pity for this grievous loss, both to the crew of the starship _Enterprise_ and to the government of Earth." She stalked from the room without a pause or a backwards glance. Even the soft click of the door behind her sounded furious.

Trip opened his mouth, but one sharp gesture from Geren snapped it shut again. Geren's aide placed a hand on each human's back and, not without a little force, ushered them back out into the anteroom.

Trip and Reed looked at each other grimly. "Something tells me that Her Serenity in Repose isn't so much anymore," Reed commented.

Trip sighed, wishing for the quiet chaos of Engineering. "Yeah."


	6. In My Head

**Chapter Six - In My Head**

Archer jerked awake, sweating, facing the wall. He rolled over to look find T'Pol standing just inside the cell door. Her bruises had faded; there was no trace of any trauma. Either Vulcans healed much more quickly than humans, he reasoned, still feeling the after-effects of the struggle on the shuttle, or more time had passed than he'd first believed. He noticed that she was holding a small box in her hands. Archer tensed, remembering the device that had rendered the three of them unconscious on the shuttle. He sat up just as she bent to place the box between them on the floor. She handled it carefully, but not gingerly, as she would have if she believed it to be dangerous. He relaxed slightly.

"There is a message from the alien," she said evenly. "It is in Vulcan, so I will translate for you."

Before he could gather his strength, the box began to emit sound. At first it sounded like babble, but then he realized that it was a language he did recognize but could not speak: Ancient Vulcan. Although his conversations with Surak had occurred in ancient Vulcan, all of the language had departed with the _katra_. Of modern Vulcan, he knew only the very few phrases he'd committed to memory but had rarely had the nerve to use in actual conversation with T'Pol.

The box repeated the series of sounds, and T'Pol shot a questioning glance toward Archer. He nodded briefly.

"There is no need to fear us," T'Pol said, translating for Archer's benefit. There was another barrage of words, all in that low, monotonous tone that characterized Vulcan for Archer. T'Pol assumed her diplomatic stance, hands clasped behind her, back straight, listening intently. Archer could tell that she was profoundly uncomfortable with the subject of the message, which, in turn, made him nervous. Not many things in the universe rattled T'Pol's equanimity.

Abruptly, the words stopped. Archer turned to his First Officer. "Does it. . . does it say anything about Egawa? Whether he's . . ." He didn't finish the sentence.

"Mr. Egawa may still be alive, Captain, and the alien has a proposition for you. It will allow me some time to discuss it with you, and will return shortly for your answer."

Archer threw a glance at the closed door. He could feel his heart galloping along at way too fast a pace, and took a few deep breaths to focus himself. They were a team, and together they would find a way out of this predicament. He had learned to have faith in the combination of his own resourcefulness and his First Officer's unwavering logic. A thought occurred to him. "Why is it using ancient Vulcan? It must have been listening to our conversations this whole time. Why not communicate with us in Standard English?"

T'Pol frowned. "Perhaps it has some experience with Vulcan or Vulcan language."

"Yeah, but why _ancient_ Vulcan? Nobody speaks the way Surak did anymore. That would be like conversing in Shakespearean iambic pentameter - "

"What does it _matter_," T'Pol snapped. "Ancient or modern, it is not important."

Archer stared at her in shock, then rubbed the back of his hand over his bottom lip. He was reminded, forcefully, that he was not the only one feeling the effects of their captivity. She might hide it better than he did, but clearly that Vulcan facade was beginning to crack under the strain. He forced a calm, conciliatory note into his voice. "I'm sorry. You're right. What's the proposition, T'Pol?"

Mollified, the Vulcan sank gracefully into a lotus position on her own mat and laced her fingers together. "As I said, the alien stated that Mr. Egawa may, indeed, be alive. However, it no longer has access to him." She eyed him cautiously, as if expecting another outburst.

"Is he injured?"

"It doesn't know." At Archer's impatient glance, she clarified, "Whatever his condition, he is not useful to the alien any longer." She straightened her back. "And it appears that I am not useful to it, either. It has had the opportunity to study me in depth, and has recorded its findings."

Archer folded his hands and pressed them against his forehead. "What does it want from me?"

The Vulcan replied carefully, "The alien requires reproductive information."

"What?"

"The alien said that your physical machine is unsophisticated, and that its assignment requires genetic material which you must provide."

"Tell it no," Archer said, in a tone that said, _You're kidding me, right?_

T'Pol paused, as if unsure how Archer would respond to her next words. "Captain, the alien proposes to let us go if you cooperate."

"Us, meaning. . .?"

"Crewman Egawa and me. The alien does not know where Egawa is being kept, but it can search without alerting the others. In exchange for your cooperation, it will provide a small pod, programmed with a pre-determined course and a distress beacon which _Enterprise_ should pick up if it is searching for us."

"We could be a hundred light years away from _Enterprise_, T'Pol. And who's to say that this alien is telling anything near the truth? It could fire you off into the nearest sun, for all you know." Archer began opening and closing his fist rapidly, feeling his blood pressure rise.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "If the alien intends to kill us, it could simply do so here. We are, after all, its prisoners."

"Just because it's speaking to you in Vulcan, and Vulcans supposedly don't lie, that doesn't mean that it isn't planning on luring you into some kind of trap," Archer argued. "I have no intention of trusting the word of a kidnapper."

The silence hung for a few moments. Then T'Pol said reasonably, "We could use this request to our advantage. We should consider that it may not be a trap, Captain." She paused, seeming to choose her words precisely. "We should consider the possibility that the alien is a scientist, and has a specific goal in mind. I am not a telepath, Captain, as you know. But from my conversation with the alien, it is clear to me that it is a scientist, not a murderer. Just give it what it wants and it will allow me to take Mr. Egawa back to _Enterprise_."

Archer bowed his head and eyed her through his lashes. "And I have to prostitute myself to get this done? That's what it told you?"

A flicker of irritation passed over T'Pol's features. "Crewman Egawa's life may very well hang in the balance, Captain Archer, and you would sacrifice him for your human _pride_? Is your species so selfish?"

Archer stared at his First Officer with his mouth open. He had been taken to task a hundred times in the past by T'Pol, but never so unfairly. She had certainly spent enough time aboard _Enterprise_, in the company of humans, to recognize the extent of what he was being asked to do. Selfish? Surely she recalled the many times he had put his life on the line for his crew, herself included, without a second thought. That she could accuse him of selfishness now hurt him deeply.

She seemed to gather herself. "Captain," she offered, "perhaps there is another way." She crawled toward him and knelt in front of his mat. "I can help you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Archer demanded faintly.

T'Pol touched his knee. "I can feel your struggle. You're barely in control – the anger, the arousal – I'm pretty sure they've drugged our food. I'm a Vulcan, I have been able to resist so far. But you, you are at the mercy of your adrenaline and your hormones. You toss and turn, moaning in your sleep; did you think I hadn't noticed?" She raised a hand to caress his cheek; he flinched away. "Humans were not designed to maintain this level of stress. The alien doesn't understand how human reproduction and sexuality are intertwined. It doesn't know what it is asking."

Archer narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you suggesting that I sleep with you, Commander?"

"I am suggesting that having sexual relations with me will enable you to provide a reproductive sample for the alien, and will also relieve the stress your body is experiencing."

"Listen very carefully, Commander: _no goddamn way_."

"Captain – "

"Let it _go_, Commander," Archer warned, steel in his voice. She retreated to her own pallet, looking almost petulant at his refusal. He softened his tone. "T'Pol, I'm obviously not myself," he touched the catheter on his chest, beneath his loose shirt, "and I'm counting on you to keep us both on track. If ever I needed you to have your full mental discipline and control, it's now." She didn't respond. "Perhaps you should take some time to meditate, get your emotions back under control."

Her only answer was a venomous glare. He decided to shut up.

They ignored each other for what seemed like an hour. But the power of suggestion being what it was, Archer was never more aware of his First Officer as now. The skin-tight catsuits she wore every day on _Enterprise_ had never struck him as sexy or revealing, but now, whether due to chemicals or proximity or their bizarre conversation, Archer had to fight to keep his mind off the way the satiny material clung to her breasts and hips.

He resolutely named all of the elements on the periodic table in order, and when he was done with that, started on the brightest stars visible from Earth. _Sirius, Canopus, Rigil Kentaurus, Arcturus . . . _T'Pol adjusted her position on the floor and heaved a great, impatient sigh, pouting those beautiful lips. He gave up halfway through, and began to prowl the perimeter of the cell. Wiping the perspiration from his lip, he realized that the room had become unbearably stuffy, as if the temperature had precipitously risen ten or fifteen degrees. With each circuit of the room, he gave T'Pol as wide a berth as the tiny cell would allow, although he felt her eyes drilling through him the whole time.

He was her captain, dammit, and he had no business even considering her proposition. Who the hell was she, anyway, to suggest that he throw away years of training on the off-chance that some nameless, faceless alien, who had, for all he knew, kidnapped them all, would release her in exchange for some seminal fluid? Egawa was most likely dead already, and T'Pol would no doubt be executed the moment he agreed.

Not to mention, he would be damned if he would be a willing participant in whatever experiment was going on here anyway. Maybe it was some breeding farm, or a cloning operation, some alien world's version of Terra Prime.

As he passed his own mat, he eyed the cup and the still-full bowl of greyish slush. He had declined to eat it the last few times the Flunkies had brought the food in; it was just too difficult to choke down and _very_ unpleasant to heave back up. Now he kicked himself mentally for eating any of it at all, for ignoring the possibility that it may have been drugged. Or maybe it was the injections; in addition to making his heart try to beat itself out of his chest, perhaps they were serving up intravenous aphrodisiac cocktails that were driving him closer and closer to ripping T'Pol's clothing off and –

_Um, then there's Antares, Spica, Pollux, Formalhaut, Deneb, no, Becrux, THEN Deneb and Regulus _. . .

He growled under his breath and kept walking.

"You are being foolish," T'Pol observed from her side of the room. She was on her feet, ready to block his way as he came near. "Your body is crying out for release. You would rather drop dead of a heart attack than allow your body to function as it was intended . . . Stubborn, foolish human."

He crossed the cell in two steps and slammed the Vulcan up against the wall. "Is _this_ what you want me to do?" he ground out, grasping her jaw and forcing her face within millimeters of his own. "You want me to give Lab Tech a show – since he's no doubt watching us right now?" He pressed his unmistakably aroused body tightly against hers, dimly wondering what was keeping her from just breaking him in half with her bare hands. "What possible explanation could I give Trip for doing what I'm about to do?" One hand skimmed over the smooth material toward her firm breast, but it halted as Archer registered T'Pol's expression: the naked fear in her eyes and the utter lack of recognition at Trip's name.

And a tiny voice nagged its way through the haze of anger and lust and stimulation: _she has not mentioned logic even once._ He tried to catch hold of that wispy thought, but was instantly distracted as T'Pol wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth to hers, pulling back only to yank the yellow tunic up over his head and toss it aside. His right hand gripped the back of her neck so that she could not escape, and his left arm hoisted her up to fit himself snugly between her legs. Their teeth clacked together as they tried to devour each other. He was long past caring. His desperate fingers searched futilely for the zipper, button, whatever the hell kind of diabolical fastening it was that kept him from her naked flesh.

She drew back for a moment, panting for air, but he could not feel her hot breath on his cheek. Her hand slid down inside the waistband of his pants, slipped through the hair there and touched him in the way his body was begging for.

No breath.

_She isn't real. This isn't real._

He froze, then shoved her away from him with every bit of strength he had left. He saw her eyelids blink sideways as she slammed into the wall behind her. And then everything went black.

* * *

At the sound of the door sliding open, Archer dragged his eyelids apart. He lay flat on his back on the mat, wearing only his trousers, his shirt clutched in his hand. He thought it was maybe time for yet another injection. The area around the chest catheter was puffy, red, and sore, not a good sign. He had tried very hard not to think about what substance might be inside those hypos, but each time he felt his heart race out of control, he wondered if they were trying to sustain him or kill him.

He listlessly rolled over to his side to face the cell door. T'Pol's mat was empty, her bowl gone. Archer took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

The Flunky approached him slowly, holding the metal pole Archer recognized as the electric prod, a little less than a meter long, in both hands. As always, its face was concealed by a mesh mask, so there was no telling by its expression whether it intended to harm him. It stopped in front of Archer's mat and lowered the pole.

Immediately, Archer felt the hum of energy course through his shackles. In that instant, it became impossible for him to lift or control his arms. The bracelets attached themselves to the pole magnetically, and, just like that, Archer was powerless. Flunky wielded the pole like a sword, and, seemingly with no effort, dragged Archer to his feet. It simply pulled Archer out of the cell and started down the hallway outside. Archer didn't recognize the corridor, and tried his best to memorize everything about the route. The edges of his vision blurred, and he blinked the fuzzy, distorted image back into focus, stumbling over his own bare feet.

It was not long before Archer was shoved into a dark, cavernous room. He squinted against the gloom, flinching from the moving shadows. The place had a sweet-ish smell, reminiscent of the biology laboratories in college where students were required to perform experiment after experiment on the lowly fruit fly. As it had thirty years before, the scent made Archer feel slightly nauseated. He had no desire to find out what experiments were conducted here, or on whom.

Lab Tech materialized in front of Archer, pushing Flunky almost violently out of the way. It yanked the metal pole out of Flunky's hands, disengaged it, and tossed it, perhaps angrily, to the side. Then, after a series of abrupt hand movements, it thrust Flunky out of the room. No longer supported by the energy pole, Archer slumped to the floor.

If he hadn't known better, he would have concluded that Lab Tech was upset, even distressed, by Flunky's treatment of him. It ran its hands up and down Archer's bare chest and arms as if testing for damage. It pressed against the puffiness around the catheter, stopping only at Archer's hissed intake of air. After a moment, it retreated to a high counter and retrieved a cup of clear liquid. Archer pressed his lips shut, turning his face away. Lab Tech insisted, bearing down on him with the cup, until Archer batted it away onto the hard floor, and they reached an impasse.

Lab Tech retreated a few feet away, considering him. Archer eyed it back. Finally, Lab Tech took a small box, identical to the one in Archer's . . . dream, hallucination, whatever it had been, and placed it an equal distance between them. As before, the box began to speak in a low, monotonous tone. Archer fixed his eyes on it, and could not look away. The edges of his vision began to blur again, and suddenly T'Pol was standing before him. He shook his head; his First Officer remained.

"What the hell is going on here?" Archer demanded.

T'Pol sighed. "You are stubborn."

Archer rubbed his eyes. "And you're not T'Pol."

T'Pol just looked at him silently.

"Where the hell are my officers, what are we doing here, and _why the hell are you in my HEAD_?" Archer's voice rose with each demand.

"You are not cooperating. You must cooperate."

"Hell with that," Archer snapped, squeezing his eyes shut briefly, "get out of my head." T'Pol disappeared, leaving Lab Tech standing there.

Lab Tech opened a small cabinet door. Moving slowly across the room, it placed several small objects on the floor. Archer stooped down to pick them up. They were pips, three of them. With horror, he realized that these were T'Pol's rank pips, removed from her uniform. He calmed himself as much as he could - after all, he himself wore four pips. These were not necessarily T'Pol's. But then that hope died on the vine as Lab Tech placed four more pips in a separate pile on the floor. Clearly, Lab Tech knew that the tiny pieces of metal signified a person, that they differentiated Archer, the captain, from T'Pol, the commander. It obviously expected Archer to grasp the significance: that it had control of T'Pol, and that her life depended on him. Of Egawa, there was no trace, not even a nametag. Was he alive or not? Lab Tech dangled the hope before Archer's eyes, anything to get him to cooperate.

Lab Tech walked slowly back to the little box, still sitting in the middle of the floor. Without turning his back on Archer, it re-activated the box. T'Pol reappeared, implacable, and scooped up all of the rank pips with one hand. This was no insubstantial vision, then.

"You must cooperate," she said, sounding just like the T'Pol he'd known and trusted for seven years. He felt his blood run cold. How long had he been conversing with this imposter in the cell? Had T'Pol ever been there at all? He staggered back a step, breathing heavily, and then felt his legs give way. Imposter-T'Pol watched him sit with a bone-jarring thud on the hard floor. "You must put aside your stubbornness if we are to communicate. Everything depends upon this, Captain Archer."

He couldn't look at her – it. Fixing his eyes on the tile next to his leg, he said, "Explain yourself." Only the memory of the two piles of Starfleet metal kept him from launching himself at the T'Pol apparition. He listened carefully as his mind worked.

"I have no language you can comprehend, and no means of communicating my intentions to you," Imposter-T'Pol began, "save this. You must cooperate. It was error to attempt to deceive you, a miscalculation. I will communicate in your native language from now forward."

Archer felt his mouth twist bitterly. Was that supposed to be some sort of half-assed apology? Or an explanation? Did this alien really think that choosing the wrong version of Vulcan was its only miscalculation?

"You are making this difficult," Imposter-T'Pol went on. "Your First Officer is alive. I believe your crewman is, as well, but not for long." Archer started. "Yes, time is of the essence, Captain. I can release your Vulcan and your human, but only at great risk to myself. I am willing to undertake this risk, for a price."

He already knew what that price was, and he couldn't pay it. Wouldn't pay it. He started to shake his head in refusal.

Imposter-T'Pol began to fade. "Then I cannot save them. Your Vulcan will be disposed of. Your crewman, if he is not already dead, will be disposed of."

"Wait!" Panic made Archer rise to his knees and reach out one hand. He searched around for something, anything, to buy himself more time. "How do I know you aren't lying to me? I want to see Commander T'Pol, alive and well."

Imposter-T'pol scowled. "You are wasting time and opportunity. The others are not so generous to you."

"Others," Archer repeated, thinking Lab Tech must mean the Flunkies. "Aren't you the boss around here? In charge," he added, as Imposter-T'Pol knit its brow.

"All communications with you are secret. I have my assignment, and you must cooperate so that I can complete it. If I cannot complete my assignment, you will be disposed of. Your commander will be disposed of. I will be disposed of. You must cooperate."

Archer sat back, thinking hard, trying to decipher Imposter-T'Pol's intent. They had T'Pol and Egawa - in what shape, he didn't know. Lab Tech didn't seem inclined to let Archer go, but might be persuaded to in exchange for . . . well. He had no idea where T'Pol - the _real_ T'Pol - was, but Lab Tech had said it would release her, hadn't it? And if T'Pol was in any shape to be released, she would find her way back to _Enterprise_ and bring help.

And all he had to do was to trust this alien, the one who was now appearing to him in his First Officer's skin, who had just a little while ago tried to rape him, who found it necessary to invade his head in order to speak to him. And whose price was just a little bit too high.

He had given his life for his crew several times over. He wished the ransom were as easy this time.

"If I cooperate with you, you will release my crewmembers and send them to safety." What had the imposter said the first time, back in the cell? "A pre-programmed pod with a beacon - a way to contact my ship."

"I have said so."

"You _promise_." Archer felt ridiculous trying to hold this alien - already proven to be duplicitous in the extreme - to such a human convention. But he had no other cards to play. If this alien was in his mind, had accessed even the echoes of Surak's _katra_, as evidenced by its knowledge of Ancient Vulcan, it would know what he was demanding.

"Yes," the alien said. "I promise." Imposter-T'Pol bent down gracefully and placed the seven pips in a pile on the floor, then disappeared, once again leaving Lab Tech in its place. Lab Tech walked over to the high counter and poured another cup of clear liquid. It approached Archer slowly and held the cup out.

_You must cooperate_. And here was the test.

Archer reached out, grasped the cup, and, without allowing himself another second to think about it, downed the contents in three great gulps. The room spun around him, and he immediately collapsed to the floor.


	7. Greater Sympathy for the Monster

**Chapter Seven -** **Greater Sympathy for the Monster**

"Commander."

T'Pol's step faltered only a little before she recovered. She allowed herself to feel an instant of relief at hearing this voice from the dead. She kept her eyes forward, and didn't resist the strong hands that held her forearms and propelled her down the hall. They had passed the small, closed-in room where her captors had allowed her on a few occasions to perform her rudimentary ablutions - relieving herself in private, washing her hands and face in a tiny basin of clean water - so she was bracing herself for more experimentation, or something worse.

"Sir, if you can hear me, clear your throat."

T'Pol coughed twice. She heard a slither above her head and to her right. Her captors, one on each side, strode steadily along, their long legs making no attempt to compensate for the Vulcan's shorter steps. They marched in four-four time, while she struggled along in three-quarter. Either the words, spoken in Standard English, were inaudible to alien ears (if they had any), or the sound didn't signify.

"Commander," Egawa's whisper continued as he slid his body along inside the ceiling, counting on her highly sensitive Vulcan hearing to catch his words. "Ahead about fifteen meters, there is a bend in the corridor. I'm going ahead of you – I can take out the guy on your right. The other one's yours. T minus forty-five seconds."

T'Pol coughed again in agreement and began to center herself. The being on her left, her target, was a full head taller than her, dressed, as they all were, in the baggy protective garment and mesh face mask. She wondered if the garment were a sort of EV suit, or perhaps medical gear. She supposed the whole facility might be considered a sterile laboratory; the corridors through which they marched her by force were divided by solid doors, and the door in front of them never slid open until the door behind them was completely shut. It would be the ideal way to keep the sections decontaminated.

Ten meters, thirty seconds.

She balanced on the balls of her bare feet with each step. The loose fitting tunic and overly long drawstring pants she wore might prove to be a problem in prolonged hand-to-hand combat. Her captors bore her relentlessly on.

She could now see the curve. Her focus was absolute, relegating her painfully persistent headache to the background. She felt her heartbeat quicken slightly, her adrenaline increase just enough to put her senses on alert. Four meters.

As they passed underneath a vent, she glanced up and noticed that the grate covering the opening was missing. She took three quick steps forward in an effort to distract her two guards. A pair of bare brown feet dropped into view as she passed and the soft sound of flesh hitting floor was enough to alert the aliens. But it was too late. A black-clad arm reached out and yanked the captor on her right abruptly backwards, twisting and slamming it against the far wall. On that signal, T'Pol lunged to the left with her hand curved. The juncture between neck and shoulder gave way beneath the pressure of her fingers, and for a split second, she worried that the physiology of these beings was sufficiently different from humans or Vulcans to render her attempt at an incapacitating nerve pinch futile.

A nanosecond later, though, the large body went limp, and she let gravity – higher here than _Enterprise's_ normal – pull the unconscious being to the floor with a thud. She heard a loud crack and looked over to where Egawa, wearing his black uniform jersey over the soft, ill-fitting alien-issued trousers, held the other guard's head between his chest and the crook of his elbow. The neck was clearly broken. He looked up at her, his expression shuttered.

T'Pol reached over toward the guard lying on the floor next to her and applied the deadly _tal'shaya_. The body didn't even attempt to draw a final breath.

"This way, sir," Egawa said quietly, pointing toward the ceiling. He laced his fingers together to form a stirrup, and hoisted her with a muffled grunt into the airshaft. She reached down, bracing herself against the square opening, and pulled him up with one arm. The crewman replaced the vent cover and leaned back against the wall to catch his breath.

In the dim light afforded by the corridor below them, T'Pol studied Egawa. His face was grey, sheened with sweat. His audible respirations were rapid, and sounded labored. The pungent odor of fever seared her nostrils, even above the stink of sweat and fear emanating from the human. She had become accustomed to a kind of baseline human smell aboard _Enterprise_, and hardly ever resorted to using her nasal numbing agent anymore, but this stench made her stomach roll.

"You are ill," she said, just to let him know that she had noticed.

Egawa shrugged with half a shoulder. "Yeah, I guess I am." He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I think that was the point, really." T'Pol's eyebrow went up. "Let's move a little further in, Commander. I've staked out a good hiding place."

Whoever had built the laboratory had apparently seen no need to access the air vents. The shafts were rough, perhaps constructed of a poured substance similar to concrete, unlined, and only a meter and a half high. They crawled on their hands and knees, the abrasive surface scratching their palms and toes and catching on their trousers, until Egawa silently indicated a small alcove. He backed into it and made room, just barely enough, for her. Again his breath hitched as he recovered.

"Turn around, Crewman," T'Pol said. After a moment's hesitation, Egawa did as he was bid, shuffling around on his rear end to present his back to her. She pushed his shirt up, then tapped his rib cage, and up and down along his spine, leaning in to press her ear against his overheated skin. Egawa held himself perfectly still, his shape a question mark. Finally, T'Pol drew back. "You have fluid in your lungs, Crewman. And a fever."

"Are _you_ okay, sir?" Egawa asked. T'Pol recognized this change of subject for what it was; Egawa was, in every way, it seemed, Lieutenant Reed's protégé. All that was missing was the requisite insistence that he was, contrary to all evidence, fine.

She tore a page from his playbook. "I am unharmed."

"Have you seen the captain?" Egawa went on anxiously. "Do you know if he's . . . still alive?"

T'Pol drew her knees up toward her chest. "The last time I saw Captain Archer was approximately two hours ago. He was asleep. The beings who are holding us prisoner appear to be conducting physical experiments on him. They have administered various drugs – some stimulants, some sedatives -- to what purpose, I don't know."

Egawa leaned his head back against the wall. "They're definitely conducting experiments, Commander. Medical experiments. On all of us."

"Report," T'Pol said.

"When I came to, after they knocked us out on the shuttle, I was in some kind of lab. My uniform was gone and I was strapped to a table." Egawa closed his eyes, as if picturing the scene. "There were about six of them in the room; I couldn't tell what they looked like because they all had these suits on. Like they were handling hazardous materials. Those kinds of suits." His left hand touched the inside of his right elbow, where T'Pol could see the familiar pattern of needle marks, set in a precise square. "I know they spent a lot of time drawing blood – every two seconds, it seemed to me. And then a couple of times they injected me with something. I didn't know what it was.

"Whatever they were doing, they were really consistent about it. Like clockwork. Every, maybe, four hours or so, they'd either draw blood or inject something. Then they'd scan me - and I got the feeling they were looking for something specific. It wasn't long before I started feeling sick and kind of dizzy, and I started running a temperature. When they came in and took their readings, it was like they were pleased, like that's what they wanted."

"How did you escape?"

Egawa ducked his head. "I didn't escape, sir. I was let go." At T'Pol's frown, he went on. "Well, as I said, after I started feeling really bad, the, uh, aliens would come in and take readings and draw blood. One time, three of them came in, and one started to prepare a hypo of something. The other two stopped him - it. They never spoke or anything, just clicked and squealed at each other, but it was clear that they were strongly disagreeing. The one with the hypo got shoved out of the room, and the other two just took the readings, like normal.

"A couple hours later, the other one came back - I got the impression he was some kind of doctor or something. He got me up out of bed and gave me my uniform jersey back. Then he took me out of the room and into the corridor." Egawa paused. "There wasn't anyone around, and - well, it definitely felt like we were sneaking. Then, finally, he opened a ventilation door, handed me a balled up piece of cloth, and pushed me in."

"And you have been in the ventilation system ever since?"

"Yeah. I have no idea how long, though. About a day?"

T'Pol remembered the Flunky's pantomime with the broken dish, the careless response to Archer's inquiry about Egawa, as if to say, _That one doesn't matter; he is dead or as good as dead_. Unlike Lab Tech, the Flunky had seemed unconcerned about the use of violence, and easily provoked to anger. She forced down a growing sense of anxiety. Once the aliens discovered the bodies of the guards, and that T'Pol had disappeared, the captain would be in greater danger. She shared Archer's assessment that her function was to keep him cooperative, to coerce him into submitting to the medical experiments Egawa had just confirmed. But the injections - whether of drugs or stimulants - were rapidly becoming too strong for Archer to handle. Without her presence, how long would he be able to control his volatile impulses; how long before he succumbed to his panic and drug-induced fury and tried to murder Lab Tech or one of the Flunkies. The next time they shocked him insensible with their prods, T'Pol wouldn't be there to revive him.

Egawa pulled a piece of cloth out of his waistband and unfolded it. "This is what he gave me," he said. As T'Pol let her eyes adjust to the darkness, she felt a tiny shock. Three databadges - labeled alternately in Standard English letters and Carah Shon characters "Archer, J.," "T'Pol," and "Egawa, J." - lay on the yellow square. The last time she had seen them, they had flashed against the dull orange palm of Arat Atanoma, before being stuffed into the guide's pocket, moments before the doomed shuttle's final flight.

If Lab Tech had them in its possession, then Arat Atanoma - or someone very close to him - had been in on the kidnapping. And worse, Lab Tech had access to their entire medical history. Suddenly, the tests and injections and scans seemed infinitely more sinister. There was a method here, and a goal. And T'Pol couldn't even guess what that goal could be.

She took another look at the cloth, and this time made out unfamiliar characters, tiny dots and scribbles that formed a loose pattern on the fabric. "Have you any idea what this writing means?"

Egawa rubbed his eyes and studied the cloth. "Maybe coordinates? Or directions? I mean, the letters _look _familiar . . ."

To T'Pol, they appeared very similar to the symbols on the walls of the corridors below them. Did Lab Tech want them to escape? Did the symbols correspond to the way out of this facility? And did the databadges contain some clue to why the three of them had been kidnapped and brought to this laboratory in the first place?

"We have to find the captain," she said. She studied the corridor, mapping the route in her head. "I believe I can find my way back to the cell the captain and I occupied. Do you think you can make it, Crewman?"

Egawa heaved himself back up to his knees. "No problem, sir."

T'Pol thought his response was more than a little optimistic.

She led the way, stopping frequently to listen for footsteps in the corridors. Nobody passed below them; there seemed to be only a small number of personnel in this facility. She had only seen a few different aliens: the one Captain Archer had called "Lab Tech," and a total of four "Flunkies." She and Egawa had killed two of them. She didn't know how many remained; there could be countless more that she had never seen. Behind her, Egawa struggled along, taking advantage of every pause to catch his breath and wipe his wet palms on his trousers. T'Pol expected him to ask for a moment to rest; he remained silent except for the harsh rasp of his breathing. Just about halfway to their destination, T'Pol realized that she was beginning to feel dizzy and increasingly warm. She craved a glass of water, served human style, with great cubes of ice rattling, beads of condensation sliding down the outside of the glass, spilling over her fingers, making the glass slippery in her grasp . . .

She shook her head, exacerbating her headache. Perhaps it was the tight space, or the lack of oxygen, or her inability to meditate properly - or maybe the illness that was causing Egawa to drag more and more slowly was beginning to affect her as well. If her theory was correct, and she had no reason to suspect that her logic was unsound, Egawa had likely been injected with some sort of virus, infected on purpose. That must be why the beings were so careful to keep each section quarantined, and why they wore protective haz-mat suits. If the aliens, like Lab Tech, were deliberately cultivating a virus in a human host, then the constant blood drawing would allow them to monitor their progress. She tried to remember: had they injected her with any substances, or merely drawn blood?

Was Egawa's illness contagious? Or had she already been exposed to a virus by being in close quarters with Archer?

Was the captain even now dying, alone?

And why would Lab Tech let Egawa go?

She felt herself frown, and couldn't summon the discipline to do anything about it. It took every ounce of willpower to place one flat hand in front of the other, to draw her knees forward, covering meter after meter, inch by inch.

"Do you need to take a break, Crewman?" she asked after about forty minutes, remembering how weak her companion must be. "We can sit here for a moment."

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Sir, if I sit down now, I don't believe I'll ever get up again."

Indeed. T'Pol kept going, setting a slow but steady pace she thought the human could manage, following the diagram she held in her head. It took, by her reckoning, more than three hours to traverse the cramped web of air shafts to the vicinity of Archer's - and her - cell. She stopped at a grate, by her calculation, the one just over Archer's mat. Her sensitive ears straining, she could only hear the labored breathing of her companion. She quelled the urge to shush him irritably; he was lucky enough to be drawing any oxygen at all. Carefully, she inched forward and eased her fingertips between the slats of the vent. It gave way easily, without a sound. She waited a beat, then lifted the grate enough to peer inside the room.

Egawa opened his eyes as she slid down next to him. "Is the captain okay?" he whispered.

T'Pol let her shoulders sag, unconsciously imitating her crewmates' most common expression of disappointment. She shook her head once from side to side. Egawa leaned forward, gazing past her to the room below.

It was empty. No mat, no bowls, no captain.

* * *

Archer woke in his new room, alone, disoriented, and groggy. He was strapped in a chair, almost completely reclined, as if in a dentist's office. His bare arms were restrained along the rails of the chair by the familiar metallic bracelets. His ankles were locked down by a bar laid across them. He struggled briefly before giving up, electing to conserve his strength for whatever lay ahead.

The room was now brightly lit and garish, revealing a particularly nauseating shade of bleached out pinkish-orange on the walls, floor, and ceiling. Aside from the color, the room looked as sterile as a surgery. It contained no other furniture except a work bench pushed up against the wall. He ran his eyes along the walls as far as he could, smiling slightly as he located the door and two air vents. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious; his body clock was nowhere near as accurate as T'Pol's.

Lab Tech floated into view, scanner in hand. Archer craned his neck to follow as Lab Tech circled the chair silently. It came to a stop just beyond the chair; Archer regarded it over his bare toes.

"What did you do with my crew," he croaked, voice raspy. He wasn't sure Lab Tech even understood him, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let it touch him until he was convinced Lab Tech had kept its end of the bargain. He strained against the manacles briefly when Lab Tech didn't respond right away. "Tell me where my crewmembers are."

Lab Tech placed the scanner down on a nearby table and picked up the box, the same one that had caused Imposter-T'Pol to appear.

"_Don't you fucking dare_," Archer warned.

Lab Tech manipulated the controls and the box spoke. There was no accompanying image this time, only a voice that sounded oddly like a combination of T'Pol's monotone, Egawa's rumble, and his own flat mid-Pacific Coast accent. "I have done what I have said," the box – or rather, Lab Tech – intoned. "You must cooperate."

"You let them go? You gave them a pod?"

"I have released them. There is not much time." Lab Tech stepped forward and grasped the waistband of Archer's trousers.

"No, wait, you said you would give them an escape pod with a beacon," Archer insisted. "You said you would give them a ship!" He began to struggle in earnest, trying without success to free his arms. The chair shook with the force of his resistance.

"You must cooperate," Lab Tech repeated, and pulled the trousers down to Archer's bound ankles with one smooth yank.

He couldn't do anything about it, not even draw his knees up to protect his privacy. He kicked against the metal bar, grimacing as the violent movement sent sharp pains shooting up his shins. Lab Tech watched impassively, face hidden behind that ever-present mesh mask. After some silent consideration, it reached out with its right hand and pressed the tip of an electric prod against Archer's jugular vein. Archer could feel the energy buzzing through it. The electricity crackled along his skin, making the fine hairs at the nape of his neck rise. His muscles contracted with the memory of the current sizzling through his body, and T'Pol's involuntary cry of pain.

"You must cooperate, or you will be disposed of." That was clear enough. Archer abruptly stopped thrashing. Lab Tech pushed the prod against Archer's neck one more time, as if to make sure he knew it was serious, then turned away to make its preparations. Archer surreptitiously tried to ease his wrists out of the manacles, to no avail. He only succeeded in raising painful red welts on his forearms.

In the seven years he had commanded _Enterprise_, Archer had been tortured and beaten on several occasions. He had come to think of it as the price he must pay for the privilege of leadership: better him than any of his crew. The Xindi had done their level best, under Commander Dolim's expert guidance, to pull his arms from their sockets as they had suspended him from the ceiling by his wrists and hammered him. He had suffered a hairline fracture of his jaw, inflicted by his now-ally Shran, when the Andorian had pounded him, trying to get information about the Vulcan listening post on P'Jem. The Tandarans had battered him with fists and elbows and hard rubber batons, leaving him gasping with pain in the dark of solitary confinement. He remembered Travis' swollen, bloody face, courtesy of Colonel Grat, and counted that image as one of his most regrettable failures. The enemy should never get through him to his crew.

It wasn't difficult to give himself over to a vicious enemy seeking information, time and time again, to dare himself to hold out as long as he could. A defiant comment could earn a rifle butt to the face - and also buy time for his crew to escape. He had learned to welcome the sheer inevitability of pain's embrace, knowing that with it came sweet relief when it at last let him go. After a while, as the blows rained down, he would move past the fear, past the giddiness; his body would go numb, and his mind would eagerly anticipate the blessed darkness that always came when the torture went too far. Sometimes he tried to goad the torturer into losing control, into hitting too hard too soon, and in losing consciousness, he would gain the advantage, for a senseless prisoner cannot give away any information.

He was, by experience, an expert on physical torture, a connoisseur of brutality. But he had never encountered abuse of this type before. And there was nothing in the universe he could do to stop it.

Lab Tech took hold of him with a gloved hand, and Archer turned his face to the wall, summoning his entire will. He had promised to cooperate, but he'd be damned if he would make this easy. He tried to fix his mind on something concrete, not on Lab Tech's rough, painful manipulation. He bit his lip and tasted blood. "I am harming you?" Lab Tech asked, sounding distressed. Archer ignored the question. The hands gentled gradually, resolving into a firm, steady motion, and Archer began to list each of the moons of Jupiter. And then moved on to Saturn's.

But in the end, his body betrayed him, as he knew it would, as it was designed to do. He groaned his way through an unsatisfying climax, grinding his teeth and digging his nails into his palms. Lab Tech, with ruthless meticulousness, gathered the sample into a waiting vial without wasting even a drop.

Archer felt his face set, even as the perspiration evaporated off his skin. He gave no response as Lab Tech tugged the trousers back up, making the alien do all the work of shifting the material underneath his body. All the while, he imagined myriad ways of murdering Lab Tech: slowly, quickly, it didn't matter, as long as it was painful, bloody, and permanent.

An hour passed, perhaps two, silently. Lab Tech busied itself at its bench, measuring, evaluating. Archer began to see the creature as a sort of alien Dr. Frankenstein, and began to feel greater sympathy for the monster of the story, as T'Pol had. His mind drifted to his First Officer, to his crewman, and he wondered if Lab Tech had truly kept its word. For if T'Pol and Egawa were not on their way back to _Enterprise_, then the thousand humiliations he had just suffered had been for nothing, and he had no more to gain or to lose.

The door to the lab burst open, and he soon had his answer.

A Flunky he didn't recognize - he knew the usual ones by attitude and stride - headed straight for Lab Tech and threw it to the floor, scattering slides and tubes across the room. Neither spoke in words, but their gestures plainly described a heated discussion, punctuated by high-pitched squeaks, clicks, and hisses. The translator box skittered along the floor past the reclining chair and hit the wall behind Archer's head. It hummed to life, and with a little concentration, Archer could follow the argument.

Boss Flunky towered over Lab Tech with authority, its position one of demand. _Where are the others?_

_They are not my concern. This one is._ Lab Tech, regaining its feet, didn't back down, and moved protectively between Boss Flunky and Archer.

_The female and the male are not in their cells. Two of us are missing. What have you done?_

_If you have lost the subjects, you will have to answer for this. It is not my concern._

_It is all of our concern if the patron comes back and you have not completed your assignment. You have nothing to show for the time we have had them. _

_The patron will be more disturbed that you have misplaced the subjects, I would think._ The metallic tone of the box didn't convey the derision of Lab Tech's words. But Boss Flunky clearly did not appreciate the mockery; it pushed Lab Tech aside forcefully and grasped Archer by the face. The clawed fingers dug into Archer's cheeks, but he kept his watering eyes steadily on Boss Flunky's mask. His mind raced. T'Pol and Egawa were missing. Lab Tech had apparently kept its bargain, at least in part. He knew that, given an opportunity, however small, his First Officer would find a way out of this laboratory and back to _Enterprise_. And once she returned to the ship, she and Malcolm and Trip would not stop until they had rescued him. He suppressed a groan of pain as Boss Flunky gave his face one last frustrated squeeze and then pushed away. The angry alien whipped around and began examining the room.

Archer wondered who this mysterious "patron" might be. It had to be someone connected with the Carah Shon L'os, an insider, maybe, who might have been privy to the flight plan between The World and _Enterprise_. The intruders who had stormed the shuttle had not hesitated for a second; they had known exactly how many passengers and crew were aboard, and at least one of them had known how to fly the ship. He thought back to the numerous luncheons and dinners and receptions he'd attended. He didn't remember meeting anyone so influential and with such an animus against humans, who would be inclined to arrange a kidnapping and imprisonment of two humans and a Vulcan.

And what did this patron want? What was Lab Tech's assignment?

Boss Flunky moved to Lab Tech's workbench, inspecting the samples there. After a moment, it inquired, showing no sign of anger, _How much longer do you need? We are running short on time. The patron is becoming impatient._

_If you can refrain from destroying my laboratory_, Lab Tech replied,_ I will have results for your use by the end of the next cycle. You will be able to deliver everything on time, as promised. _Boss Flunky twitched, and Lab Tech added,_ You could have the virus now - but it is useless, I would think, without the proper antidote. Unless you do not mind dying with them._

_Two cycles_, Boss Flunky reiterated. It flicked a finger at a bit of a broken sample dish as punctuation. _No more. Complete your assignment and have it ready for delivery by then. And when you are done with this subject, kill it. _

Archer lay, still and shocked, in the chair. He now knew for certain that he was part of an evil experiment. The aliens were cultivating both a virus and an antidote. He could think of only one reason for such an experiment: a biological weapon. Who were the intended victims? Probably not humans, unless they had found a way to use Archer's own genetic material against his species. He thought back to the early part of his captivity. The drugs they had injected him with - perhaps they had been ramping up his body's own auto-immune reaction. T'Pol had conjectured that his endocrine system was being manipulated. Was the collection of seminal fluid intended to provide a source of antibodies, a kind of built-in vaccine for whatever virus they had engineered? Was humanity about to be hit with a superflu or some other disease for which they had no cure? Or were these monsters planning to exterminate some other species by introducing a virus for which there was no natural defense, decimating a population the way early conquerors had annihilated native North Americans by giving them smallpox-infested blankets?

Lab Tech silently watched as Boss Flunky left the room. Without looking at Archer, it set about putting its workspace back to rights. Archer tried not to move, tried not to draw attention to himself, lest he provoke Lab Tech into carrying out the death sentence he'd just been given. But Lab Tech just puttered, dropping broken materials into a waste receptacle, examining its slides before throwing them away. It seemed, for the first time, defeated.

The alien slowly moved across the room and picked up the voice box, which was still humming near the wall behind the chair. It walked back into Archer's line of sight, then slowly, deliberately, placed the device on the workbench, conveying very clearly that it knew that Archer had understood the entire conversation. Archer watched as Lab Tech approached, a broken vial in its hand. The alien showed the pieces to Archer, then the box spoke. "You must cooperate."

Archer went cold. "_No_," he said, pressing back into the chair in futility. "No way." He felt his breathing grow shallow and rapid.

Lab Tech carefully threw away the detritus of Boss Flunky's tantrum and donned a fresh set of gloves. Without another sound, it approached and reached once again for its unwilling and helpless lab specimen.


	8. This is The World

**Chapter Eight - This Is The World**

Commander Tucker took a sip of the thick green liquid in his cup. He had asked for the beverage most like coffee in terms of caffeine effects, and this was what he'd gotten. It looked like antifreeze and tasted vile. But he could feel the jolt to his system with every mouthful. He glanced over at Malcolm, who was sitting as still as a totem pole, eyes closed, taking advantage of the quiet of the waiting room to meditate and recharge. He wished he could go back to _Enterprise_ just for a few hours: take a shower to wash away the increasingly sour smell of worry and fatigue; lie down on his own bunk and get a minute or two of REM sleep; eat a good, old fashioned bowl of hot, creamy oatmeal, his comfort food of choice. Instead, he straightened his pants leg, futilely smoothing the wrinkles, and braved another mouthful of neon sludge. Still tasted bad. He couldn't suppress the groan of distaste, and looked over at Malcolm once again. No reaction there.

He knew, although he couldn't explain how, that T'Pol, at least, was still alive. The mental bond they had shared years ago had eventually dissolved, but from time to time, he had been aware of her presence, like wispy smoke in the distance. They never talked about it; there was no frame of reference, no precedent. They had slipped back into easy companionship, a less prickly relationship than they had cultivated before the Expanse, prior to their affair. Less sparring for the sake of the fight, more collaboration and cooperation. She had developed a surprising tendency to zing him with her dry humor; he was more centered and less likely to fly off the handle at every perceived criticism. They were more good friends working closely than stilted ex-lovers who couldn't escape each other. And yet, somehow he knew, as certainly as he knew his own name, that he would would feel it, that a part of him would die as well, if that wisp of smoke faded out of existence. He checked once again; she was still there, faintly.

Lieutenant Reed stirred only when the door to the anteroom slid open, and Geren Liaison stepped in, looking grave. He was followed by a tall, slim woman who was dressed in a form-fitting blue robe. Reed got to his feet immediately, completely alert and maddeningly unrumpled.

"We have a problem," the Carah Shon L'os said quietly.

Trip bit back his response_, Just one? Banner day_. He stood, cracking his tired joints. "Is it Darala?"

Geren blinked. "In a manner of speaking, yes." He gestured briefly toward his companion. "May I introduce you to Doctor Ryamon Fenree, who is the Head Forensic Investigator. Doctor, Commander Tucker, Lieutenant Reed." The doctor offered neither her hand nor a greeting, but simply nodded shortly. Geren went on. "Dr. Fenree has discovered something quite disturbing."

At Geren's nod, Dr. Fenree explained. "Several of the Heirs of the First House have gone missing," she said simply.

Trip looked at Reed, confused, then asked the doctor, "Heirs, as in children? I don't remember seeing any children around since we've been here. Are you saying it's been kidnapped?"

"The Heirs of the One are not infants as you humans understand." She paused, obviously searching for the easiest way to describe Carah Shon L'os physiology. "At maturity, a female produces four to six offspring, called Vya, who remain in a dormant state until the female takes a mate. The genetic material from the male is introduced into the offspring, and it is then that the gestation is completed."

"So, females lay eggs, essentially?" Reed asked.

Dr. Fenree shot an unreadable look toward Geren. "The One is not a chicken, or a duck-billed platypus, Lieutenant Reed," she snapped, clearly having anticipated the humans' natural train of thought. "These are _children_."

Reed folded his hands behind his back. "I sincerely apologize, Dr. Fenree, Geren Liaison. It certainly was not my intention to make such a comparison."

"Your apology is accepted," replied Geren quickly, anxious to get to the point.

Trip interjected, "You say several has gone missing. How many is several? Do you have any idea who might have taken them, or when?"

Dr. Fenree produced a flat padd-like device from her pocket. "There were two hundred thirty-five Heirs. Not all of them are physically produced by The One. All children are brought to the First House until their parents have need of them. They are cared for in a common nursery overseen by the First House. Only twelve are gone. The caretaker has no explanation. She will be put to death for her negligence."

Geren clarified further. "The Heirs are kept in stasis at a secure facility. They require very little supervision; however, they have always been watched by a trusted caretaker. Never in our history has anyone dared - or even attempted - to interfere with the Heirs. They are sacred." The liaison paused and raised a shaking hand to cover his eyes, a testament to the depth of emotion he was trying to overcome. It was a moment before he could go on. "The remaining Vya have been taken to a safe house. Of the missing ones, there is no trace." The last few words were nearly lost in a choked gasp.

Instinctively, Trip moved closer to Geren, one hand hovering above the man's shoulder, and gestured to the couch he had just vacated. "Liaison, please, have a seat. Can I - do you need anything? A glass of water, maybe?" The alien's distress was palpable as he collapsed into the soft chair. He suddenly seemed old and frail and beaten down. Reed studied Geren closely, while Trip looked imploringly at the doctor. "Isn't there something you can do for him, doctor?"

Dr. Fenree beckoned the officers to the other side of the room. "He must have his grief. The caretaker was his sister's daughter."

Trip remained distracted by the broken man keening softly behind them with his face hidden in the crook of his elbow, but Lieutenant Reed focused completely on the doctor. "You have a theory on who did this, and why?"

The doctor lowered her voice. "As to who, I don't know for sure. Whoever it was clearly wanted the children alive, because the stasis chamber was taken as well. And there was no sign of any injury to those remaining."

"Wasn't there any surveillance? I mean, we're talking about the Royal Family here. There must have been security cameras."

"Commander, Geren is right. It is unthinkable to interfere with Vya. There isn't even any written law against it. It just _is not done_." She checked her padd. "The caretaker claims that no one accessed the Vya facility since the last inspection, fifteen days ago. Yet, some of the surveillance recordings have been compromised and cannot be recovered. The evidence suggests that the Vya were taken the day before your captain left The World - all the data from that period is blank, as if erased. Even the redundancy programs failed to pick up any intrusion. Nevertheless, only twelve were taken, and the stasis units for the remaining Vya were left completely intact and functional. So, I believe this crime was committed by one of The People."

"I don't understand," Trip said, frowning. "You just said that interfering with the Vya is 'unthinkable.'"

Reed nodded thoughtfully. "That's precisely why," he said, and the doctor blinked in approval. "Any other kidnapper, even if he just wanted to take some of the Vya, would probably have just killed the rest, and triggered a small explosive or shut-down to make it look like an accident maybe. But one of The People would not be able to bring him- or herself to casually destroy what we consider to be sacred."

"Just so," agreed Dr. Fenree. "We've also one more piece of information. We don't believe the Vya are still on The World. Of the vessels that left orbit within the last four days, only two were not from the _Enterprise_. One carried your captain and his companions. The other left several hours before that, before first light." She cocked her head apologetically. "It nearly escaped our attention, given the logistics of returning the conference attendees to their homes, and your crew to your ship. This small craft," she pulled up an image on her padd, "appeared to be on a path to your ship, but ultimately deviated from the plotted course."

"Where did it go?"

"We are in the process of analyzing its trail, Lieutenant. Obviously this has been made more difficult with the passage of time."

"It's something, though," Trip offered gamely.

"Yes, something." The doctor glanced at Geren, who had regained some composure. "Geren Liaison informed me that you have spoken to Arat Atanoma."

Reed bristled, as if expecting to be chided for stepping on the Forensic Investigator's territory. "He gave us some information, but then he went off like a nutcase. Your security agents questioned him, too."

Dr. Fenree spoke carefully and slowly. "I do not work for or with the security agency. Their questions are not my questions. And they do not use the tools I have at my disposal." Her face lost all animation, and for a moment, she looked as if she had been carved from stone. "They have limits; I do not. I can get the answers we want."

"I'd like to observe your questioning," Reed said, and it was not a request. Dr. Fenree glared at him for a moment, clearly resenting the human's perceived interference. Reed just stared back levelly, his grey eyes cold. Finally, Dr. Fenree blinked once, a reluctant, grudging assent. She walked purposefully toward the door, not checking to see whether they followed.

_The evidence suggests that the Vya were taken the day before your captain left The World._ . . _This small craft appeared to be on a path to your ship, but ultimately deviated from the plotted course._

Trip felt a cold shiver race down his spine.

* * *

Torture had been outlawed in every society in every nation on Earth for more than a hundred years. In the thousands of years of civilization prior to that, however, mankind had more or less perfected both the art and the science of extracting desired information from unwilling captives. As a child, Trip had gazed with a certain horrified fascination at museum pieces, whether instruments or paintings, suggesting the limitless brutality of the business of retrieving secrets.

The People had raised intelligence-gathering to a level of elegance that was both shocking and deceptively simple. It was also highly effective.

From the expression on his face, Arat Atanoma knew what was about to happen the instant he saw Dr. Fenree enter his cell. His eyes grew wider and his body stiffer, as Trip, Reed, and Geren's trusted aide, Shevon Oreevi, filed in behind her. Trip noticed how carefully he placed the pen he had been using down on top of the electronic tablet, not bothering to hide the writing there, as he stood up from the narrow cot. Trip couldn't read the language, but he had a funny feeling that it was the prisoner's last will and testament.

Dr. Fenree had made the humans promise not to interfere, not even to speak, while she did what had to be done. "The penalty for this offense must be death," she had warned them as the complicated system of locks on the prison door was disengaged. "My mission is to get the information we need to save your crew's lives, if that is at all possible, before the sentence is carried out."

"Is it The People's way to extract that information by force and coercion?" Reed had asked. "Because I will not be a party to torture."

"Lieutenant, I do not know what humans believe. But I assure you that Arat Atanoma has no desire to pass from this life without confession. In that way, I am equipped to assist him." She had seemed to soften her hard edge for an instant. "The prisoner will be put to death no matter what. I will do my best to see that he unburdens himself beforehand."

"He doesn't get some sort of trial?" Trip had asked dubiously.

Dr. Fenree had just looked at him, her color subtly changing in shade. "This is The World, not Earth, Commander Tucker," she had said, not unkindly, and had opened the door.

Trip glanced across the small room to Reed, who was standing unobtrusively in the opposite corner. The lieutenant held a scanner in his hand, recording the proceedings. This was not for any legal review, Reed had explained to Dr. Fenree, but to make sure that not even the tiniest bit of information escaped their examination. The captain, T'Pol, and Egawa had been missing for nearly five days now, and nobody was more cognizant of the fact that time was running out for them than _Enterprise_'s Tactical Officer.

As Dr. Fenree began her interrogation, aided principally by the assortment of toxic chemicals and hypodermic needles laid out on the table at her right hand, Trip wished fervently that he were light years away. Starfleet, like every other Earth organization, rejected torture outright, yet here he was, reluctantly in command of Earth's premier Warp Five starship, ambassador to The World by virtue of being the highest ranking officer left standing, not only condoning but tacitly participating in the destruction of a sentient being for information.

He thought about those dark days, early in the Expanse, when Malcolm had quietly reported what he had seen Captain Archer do to the Osaarian pirate; how Archer had nearly killed the alien in the airlock just around the corner from the Brig in order to convince the pirate to give up precious, vital codes. Reed had been shaken; had it been because he hadn't wanted to believe that Archer could take such a drastic, desperate step, or because of his own fundamental, core-deep opposition to the action? _I think the captain would have really done it, Commander,_ he had kept repeating, appalled. And yet, looking now at the lieutenant, who was watching the proceedings closely, Trip could discern none of the shock, none of the visceral _what-the-hell?_ confusion Malcolm had demonstrated that day as he had used Trip as a sounding board for his fear that Archer might need to be removed from command. That Malcolm had gone, replaced by a Tactical Officer who had held the safety of the entire crew in his hands once too many times to be so idealistic. If the doomed alien's plight disturbed him, he kept his own opinions to himself.

To Trip's knowledge, Archer had never again used torture, or even the threat of torture, to accomplish his goals. But he had never fully come back to himself, either, after the Expanse. Even so, in Trip's place, would the captain allow this man to be slowly murdered right in front of his eyes, choosing not to interfere with the inner workings of a sovereign government? Or would he choose humanity and compassion, and possibly sacrifice the lives of three crewmembers? And how could a person possibly be expected to live with himself afterward, either way?

Whose death warrant was Commander Tucker willing to sign? He raised a clammy palm to rub his eyes, trying to rub away the persistent tension headache, wishing that there were any other option.

Arat Atanoma had begun to speak, uninterrupted, not the babbling invective he had hurled at Malcolm, but a monotonous stream of words without emotion, pause, or emphasis. Trip could make out some of it, filtered as it was through the language matrix. Dr. Fenree's translator program had no qualms about conveying the viral hatred Atanoma felt for The One, and everything she represented. Atanoma, trancelike, accused her of betraying her People by infecting them with the disease of outworlders. It was only fitting, Atanoma pronounced, that this same disease would wipe out the First House itself, and all who supported it.

The interrogation continued for more than an hour, as the toxins took hold of Arat's system and overrode every physical and mental barrier to speech. The prisoner's will deteriorated, no match for the will of The People. There were names of twelve other individuals as well as places, locations where the conspirators to this plot were hiding, waiting for signs of the success or failure of what seemed to be only the second phase of several. The prisoner named them all, compelled by the coercive poison eating his flesh from the inside out.

"What about the second ship?" The query was quiet, matter-of-fact.

Arat paused, fighting, then grimaced as his resistance was summarily overcome. "A decoy to hold your attention. The outworlders were no good to us dead, not initially. The explosion was to buy time - all the pieces needed to be in place."

"And the Vya? Why were they taken?" Trip heard Dr. Fenree ask.

_Better a handful of innocents than our whole race,_ was the reply, and those words irrevocably sealed the prisoner's fate.

As the questioning wore on, the prisoner answered less and less; there were no more facts to convey. He did not know the identities of the kidnappers, only that they were "allies" with special skills. He did not know their homeworld, or if they even had one. He had heard, but had not confirmed, that they were mercenaries for sale to any bidder. He did not know whether the two humans and one Vulcan were still alive. He did not know where they had been taken.

Arat admitted that his only other role, besides using his official position to smooth the way for the two kidnappings, was to find a way to compensate these "allies" by somehow burying the payment in layers and layers of government beaurocracy. The only tangible benefit to himself, Arat said, was the tiny amount of money he had planned to skim off the top.

Reed jotted down a note and passed it to Dr. Fenree. She read it quickly, flushed a deep mauve, then shot Reed a glance that was half irritated, half exasperated. "What difference does _that_ make?" she growled impatiently to the human, who had so far, in compliance with her request, remained perfectly silent.

The Tactical Officer gave a small shrug. "It's one question. Indulge me."

Dr. Fenree gave The People's version of an annoyed sigh, then addressed the prisoner. "Why," she said flatly, clearly not expecting any reasonable response.

The prisoner clamped his lips tightly, fighting against this one last intrusion into his privacy. It was apparent to anyone watching that he would rather die than answer this question. That luxury would not be afforded him, though, as the drugs overcame his will once more, and he ground out, "I loved her. I served her. I devoted my whole _life_ to her." Arat's breathing grew labored. He writhed on the bed, bleeding a dark liquid from his nostrils. Dr. Fenree adjusted the medication to assist him. "If anyone deserved to -" he stopped short, wrestling his physical and emotional pain under control. "She would never have acknowledged me before The People! No matter how much she promised that the secrecy would end. She would not acknowledge _me _and what we shared together, but she would perform the _Sayn to yish-vaha, _before all who were watching, with a Not-of-the-People! I knew then that she was only using me to keep Jin Sava in line - by keeping me under her control." Then, Arat went on, he had known Jin Sava was right, that Darala was leading The People astray, and he had thrown his lot in with the conspirators.

This was the only way, Arat insisted, his voice becoming more hoarse and weak, to cleanse the The People of the taint. "It was never about the money," Arat whispered, his lips growing slack, his eyes drifting shut. "This pollution - it is an abomination. Let her suffer and die with it."

It took a moment of utter silence for Trip to realize that the prisoner was gone. He locked eyes with Shevon, who looked as if she would be violently sick at any moment. He suspected that this was the first time the young aide had ever seen anyone die in such an unnatural way. To her credit, she stood firm, not breaking, never flinching, even as her hands shook uncontrollably. The circle of victims in this first-contact-gone-horribly-wrong was widening like ripples left behind a stone thrown into a pool.

As for him, Trip reflected, it remained to be seen whether he had just committed the biggest crime and failure of his career. He supposed it all ultimately depended on whether they recovered Captain Archer, T'Pol, and Crewman Egawa alive as a result. Maybe his redemption hinged on whatever success they could salvage.

The silence hung deep and heavy as Dr. Fenree performed a perfunctory examination of the now beige-grey prisoner, checking for any vital signs. Apparently finding none, she looked at Reed, no satisfaction on her face, and said, "Well. Some answers for you, at least. We need to move quickly, before the rest of them scatter like _habras gevy restanvini._"

The Starfleet translator paused for a few seconds before it delivered the nearest appropriate translation.

_Like roaches at sunrise._

* * *

The Force of The People, armed with Dr. Fenree's information, moved in with swift and ruthless efficiency. In the end, however, it was only able to round up four unlucky conspirators. Six others committed suicide behind barricaded doors, concluding that the cause was lost. But, Dr. Fenree reported grimly, two others, Jin Sava included, were nowhere to be found.

The four captives were thoroughly interrogated. Neither Trip nor Reed attended, and it was just as well, since, according to Dr. Fenree, handing over the interrogation reports, they provided very little additional information. It quickly became clear that the plot had been carefully compartmentalized. Arat, having had direct contact with the missing _Enterprise_ crew, had not had any information on where they had been taken. Another had only been in brief, remote communication with the mercenary aliens, but could not provide any coordinates or clues to their whereabouts. Still, the additional examinations - only two of them were implicated in the kidnapping of the Vya and the death of the caretaker, and were immediately put to death - took the better part of another day. Even Lieutenant Reed began to pace impatiently as the hours ticked away. Geren Liaison excused himself from his duties, presumably to deal with family matters, and his aide, Shevon, handled most of the communications with the humans.

As for Darala, she had retreated into seclusion, reportedly keeping vigil for the kidnapped children.

Trip had the sneaking suspicion that Darala was also hiding from them, her affair with Arat Atanoma and her provocation of him having been revealed.

"Tell me about this ritual dance, the _Sayn to yish-vaha_," he said to Shevon as they waited in yet another anteroom for the last conspirator to be interrogated to death. He downed another glass of filtered water, trying to replace the fluid he had sweated out on the short walk from the transport. He didn't know whether it was the suffocating heat or the lack of sleep that was making him lightheaded at the moment.

Shevon looked uncomfortable, knowing what had precipitated the question. "It is an old ritual, rarely used. Mostly, it conveys a certain . . . intimacy. We don't see it often, only at wedding celebrations, perhaps, and then, usually only when family and close friends are present. It signifies a connection, or an attraction, such as that between mates. Occasionally, it accompanies a wish to be mated, in your culture, what you would call an engagement." She paused. "Such an intimacy is not usually so . . . public."

Trip thought painfully about the Vulcan wedding ceremony he had witnessed years ago. Then, he had not been able to tear his eyes away from the ritual that had bound - both literally and figuratively - T'Pol to Koss. The touching of fingers, the ancient words being intoned around them, even T'Pol's sorrow and distaste had not been able to erase the intimacy of the act. If the _Sayn to yish-vaha _conveyed even a portion of that familiarity, it was no wonder that Arat had snapped, watching the woman he loved betray him in such a public and humiliating way.

"I have never seen the _Sayn to yish-vaha _between one of The People and one Not of The People," Shevon mused after a moment. "I would not have thought such a connection possible."

"Why not?" Reed asked.

Shevon's hue changed to a faint bluish-green; Trip thought maybe that signified confusion. "The People are The People, and humans are . . . _not_." She paused, choosing her words carefully, as if reluctant to offend Trip and Reed by pointing out such an obvious and immutable deficiency. "Do humans and not-humans connect in such a way?"

Had the situation not been so serious, Trip might had chuckled. Well, he was certainly the right person to field this line of questioning. "Humans are . . . compatible with a number of the different species we've come across," he caught Reed's eye and glanced away quickly, "so I've been told. As a general matter, it seems there's a lot we have in common. Connection-wise."

"Still," Shevon went on, sounding puzzled, "I cannot think why The One . . ." She trailed off.

"A Royal kiss-off," Reed commented quietly.

Shevon's blue-green deepened. "I . . . don't know that term."

"For whatever reason," Reed theorized, "and I'm not going to even _try_ to figure out this woman's mind, Darala wanted to break it off with Arat. So she corraled the captain into a seemingly harmless ritual dance, knowing he wasn't going to understand the cultural significance of it - or refuse her. That set Arat off, and he confronted her about it in the middle of the night."

"Why would he take the captain's bio-badge?" Trip asked, also thinking aloud.

"Maybe to prove that she drugged him? Or used some kind of aphrodisiac? The captain did look rather out of it in the surveillance film - but that could have been sheer fatigue."

Trip nodded, remembering the almost hypnotized expression on the captain's face. He definitely had not been in command of all of his faculties. Had he been under the influence of the music only, or something more chemical in nature? "So, maybe Arat found proof that she was manipulating the captain for her own ends."

Reed continued, "And, by extension, himself. And she gets the most possible bang for her buck. She conveys to Arat in no uncertain terms that it's over between them, and sends the captain on his way the next morning, none the wiser."

"And that was the straw that broke the camel's back, at least for Arat." Trip remembered what Arat had called her - _a receptacle for Terran garbage_? "That was one angry dude." At that point, Shevon pulled her translator out of her pocket. "He couldn't do anything to The One Who Is, but he could damn sure eliminate the captain. So he went over to the Dark Side."

By now, Trip had noticed that Shevon was practically neon with confusion, tapping away at her translator. He and Reed had clearly lost her in the maze of human cultural references. He clarified for her benefit, steering clear of idioms. "Arat joined this conspiracy out of revenge. He was angry at Darala, but took it out on the captain. And T'Pol and Egawa got caught up into the mix."

Shevon looked skeptical. "The One Who Is has demonstrated much hospitality and affection for your crew. She would not be so cruel and . . . and . . .undiplomatic!"

Trip smiled in spite of everything. Trust The People to come up with such a stingingly proper insult.

Reed shook his head slightly. "Ms Oreevi," he answered patiently, "you've said it yourself. It does not matter how high a regard Darala says she holds Captain Archer. When it comes right down to it, Captain Archer is not one of The People. And that's all that matters in the scheme of things. Darala got her way without ever having to 'go public' with her, er, relationship with Arat Atanoma, and if someone Not of The People got caught in the cross-fire of their little breakup, well, it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Among the rapid flashes of colours, Trip recognized anger and sadness and fear. But in the end, Shevon did not argue Reed's logic or defend her sovereign. And her silence spoke volumes.


	9. Necessary Lies

**Chapter Nine - Necessary Lies**

"Crewman," T'Pol said sharply, momentarily overcoming her aversion for physical contact to shake Egawa's shoulder. He pried his eyelids open and regarded her with something less than full attention. Even through the thick material of his jumpsuit, T'Pol could feel the heat of his body, way higher than human normal, scorching her hand. She suspected that it was sheer duty keeping him conscious. Had she had the leisure of pondering the situation, she might have been impressed. "Stay with me, Crewman."

"I don't think I could run away from you if I tried, sir," Egawa murmured absently.

T'Pol felt a frisson of fear. Egawa was nearing delirium now, having missed the point of this very common human expression. She doubted that she could carry him the rest of the way. It would take all the strength she had left to get herself where she needed to go.

She had no idea where the captain was, and, logically, they had no more time to search. _He would not leave _you_ behind,_ a small, nagging voice reminded her, harkening back to her very first mission with the obstinate, illogical captain. _He risked his life to save you, despite his contempt for you and your race, and was wounded for his efforts._ She shook her head, trying to dislodge the voice. She knew what she had to do, what Archer would expect her to do: get her crewman to safety. Egawa was her mission now; she had to get him aboard that pod somehow.

Together, they had followed the symbols written on what turned out to be a makeshift map, the scrap of fabric pushed into Egawa's hands by one of the aliens. The writing was barely legible, but the marks had corresponded to notations above doors and at junctions throughout the laboratory. Egawa had fought to stay alert, laboriously dragging his bulk through the air shafts using his elbows, too weak now to even raise himself to his knees. His fever heated the air in the narrow tunnel. Every so often, he would mutter under his breath, words that by their rhythm and rhyme scheme seemed to be nursery songs, a cadence, perhaps, to keep himself moving forward. The sound scraped her already abraded nerves, but she had called on her diminishing Vulcan control to keep her from forcibly shutting the human's mouth.

Gradually, she had become aware of a cold draft, a sharp wind hitting her own overheated skin. It had taken longer than it should have to conclude that they were approaching the terminus of the air shaft, a vent to the outside. And where there was a breeze, there would be atmosphere. T'Pol began to consider for the first time that the laboratory-prison in which they were confined might be located on a planet, not in the belly of a ship or on a space station. She had not been completely successful in suppressing a twinge of hope when she had seen the small one or two person vessel waiting like a gift on a bare patch of dirt not more than twenty meters away.

T'Pol poked her head once again out of the stuffy air vent for a count of three, swiveling to take in the entire empty courtyard, and then ducked back. She would have to take the chance that there were no cameras or alarms to alert whatever aliens still remained in this prison, or if there were, that she could get the escape pod up and running before security arrived. The pod itself, a squat oval of dense, dark metal, sat unattended on an otherwise empty launch pad, as if forgotten. There were no tethers or clamps that she could see.

A piece of fabric identical to the one she held in her hand caught her eye. It was jammed in the left bottom corner of the pod hatch. _More instructions_? she thought, and allowed herself to hope that it contained directions for operating the alien craft. _But why would this alien, whoever or whatever it was, assist in their escape? _The nagging voice was back, taunting her with doubts._ Why won't you even consider the possibility that this could be a trap? Perhaps this was yet another experiment._ She sat back on her heels.

"Sir," Egawa's voice was weak but firm. "Sir, you can't hesitate. I don't know why that thing gave me a map to get out, or allowed me to come and find you. But it did. You give me the order to move, and I promise you, sir, I'll be right behind you."

"I was not hesitating, Crewman. I was considering the options."

Eyes closed, he made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "Yes, sir."

In her mind, T'Pol ran through the steps, picturing each movement: Sprint approximately fourteen paces to the pod. Throw the hatch, help Egawa climb in. Close hatch. Ignite engines, accelerate.

She'd worry about the destination later.

It took three tries before she was satisfied that Egawa understood the plan. He nodded impatiently, obviously ready to get on with it, and wiped his palm on his trouser legs. She could feel his muscles tense in the crowded space, gathering himself to explode from their hiding place. Then his hand gripped her arm lightly. "Sir?" Egawa's voice was steady and calm. "I think the captain will understand why we're leaving him behind." T'Pol didn't respond. "But I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I couldn't protect you both."

"You've done your duty well, Crewman. And for the record," she added, "I am _ordering_ you to evacuate." She felt his tension ease incrementally, and wryly reflected that her years aboard a human vessel had affected her in odd ways. When had preventing a human's wholly illogical feeling of guilt become important to her?

T'Pol took a moment to find her center, steadying her breathing and clearing her mind of all extraneous thought. Her focus narrowed to that tiny ship, almost within touching distance. On her quiet order, they moved swiftly and as one across the small patch of frozen ground, directly into the teeth of the frigid wind. T'Pol vaulted herself through the open hatch, then one-handedly yanked Egawa up by his arm into the craft. Counting down from thirty in her head, she slammed herself into the only chair and surveyed the controls. Egawa snatched the bit of material from the floor and closed the hatch. She ran her eyes over the symbols, oriented herself with the control panel, and fired up the pod. "Hold on," she commanded, and opened the throttle.

Later, T'Pol would admit privately that it had taken all her physical and mental control to remain conscious as the tiny pod achieved orbit. Folded into the uncomfortable pilot's chair, she felt the sudden pressurization pushing against her lungs. Black spots swam before her eyes as she struggled to catch any oxygen she could. There was no time to manage the navigational controls, to check heading or attitude or speed. She simply held on to the edge of the seat as the alien craft hurtled itself into the black.

She could barely lift her head to check on Egawa, but she could hear him groaning as he lay on the deck less than half a meter away from her. Illogically, she was more concerned about his labored breathing than about the very real prospect of following a doomed trajectory into the nearest star.

Gradually, though, the pressure eased, although the artificial gravity was at least half-again _Enterprise_'s normal, and T'Pol was able to rise from the chair. She knelt beside Egawa, who was now coughing painfully. "Crewman," she said, her voice sounding hoarse, "I need to get control of this vessel. Hold on." Fighting her way back to her seat, she found that she could only manipulate the cabin's atmosphere, and adjust its gravity.

No matter how she tried, she could not alter the course of the craft. She wrestled back the frustration and fear, and schooled her features. "It appears that this vessel's course is already set," she informed Egawa. He gave a single, non-committal hum, and she turned to find him folded into a tiny alcove, peering at a dim console. "Crewman?"

Egawa rubbed his eyes, then went back to hunting and pecking with his forefinger. "I'm pretty . . . sure this is a . . . communication console. . . ," he gasped. "There's . . . some sort of . . . beacon - I can't . . . seem to shut it . . . off."

T'Pol allowed herself to channel her human crewmates for a moment, envying the fact that their language, unlike Vulcan, contained myriad words designed to express pure frustration. She used a few under her breath, experimentally. Maybe they did help, if only a little bit. It was surely no coincidence that they were_ again_ traveling in an alien spacecraft with a destination they could not control. Perhaps something worse than scientific experimentation awaited them at the end of the journey this time. How could she not have seen that this was a trap? Why had she not listened to that logical voice, the one telling her that their escape was too easy, too serendipitous? The empty corridors, the abandoned pod – she was a _Vulcan_, and Vulcans did not believe in luck or coincidence.

Nor did they believe in useless optimism, she reminded herself, as Egawa rested his head in his hands for a moment. The human was clearly on his last ounces of strength, and it would only be a matter of time before she discovered which would kill him first: the fever, the lack of food or water, or, possibly, asphyxiation when their oxygen supply ran out. Unless, of course, their alien captors came looking for them. It was illogical to worry about his imminent death, she knew, since there was very little she could do to prevent it, but she felt her pulse race each time she glanced over to find his condition deteriorated that much more. "Crewman?" she said again, trying to prod him back to full consciousness. "I am scanning to determine our location. Please continue to monitor whatever frequencies you can find."

He half-smiled and nodded briefly, keeping up the pretense that either one of them believed that they would be rescued. "Yes, sir."

She busied herself with her scans, trying to find one star pattern she recognized out of a thousand scattered clusters as the pod continued along its mysterious, pre-programmed path.

* * *

"When are you going to talk to Gardner?" Reed asked again, as soon as the pins and needles sensation had subsided.

Trip shrugged as he stepped down off the platform. Chief Engineer or no, he was never thrilled to actually _use_ the transporter. His scientific mind acknowledged that it was almost one hundred percent safe for human use; they hadn't had a real malfunction since the earliest days of _Enterprise_'s mission, and he had no problem manning the controls for other people. His superstitious gut made him avoid the spot where Quinn Erickson had re-materialized and quickly died after fifteen years in transporter limbo. "I'll get to it," he said over his shoulder as he headed down the corridor. The slightly chilly recycled air felt wonderful after the oppressively muggy heat of Carah Shon.

Reed persisted, following behind after dismissing the transporter engineer. "Commander, sooner or later you're going to have to inform Starfleet that the captain and the First Officer are missing. It's been over a week."

"What are they gonna do, Malcolm, from fifty light years away? The _best_ case scenario is they tell us to keep looking. That's what we're doing anyway. The worst case is they give us another day or two, tops, and declare the cap'n and T'Pol 'missing, presumed lost.' Well, I'm not ready to give up yet. I can wait a little while longer for a field promotion, and so can you." He stalked down the hall.

Stung by the implication that he was giving up too easily, Reed followed quickly. "Commander!" Trip stopped, but didn't turn around. Reed took in the slump of Trip's shoulders and softened his tone. "Look, Trip, all I'm saying is that Starfleet has the right to know what's going on. Even if they sent _Columbia_ to give us a little back up – "

"Malcolm," Trip interrupted, "_Columbia_'s got her hands full patrolling the Romulan hot spots. Sending her out here would leave the civilian fleets almost defenseless. Besides, if Starfleet sends _Columbia_, that's just asking for a war. Darala isn't the most rational person we've ever met, remember. She's all but thrown us off her planet and kicked us out of the system. Two starships in orbit, she'll consider that an aggression against The People and then it's on. We need her cooperation if we're ever going to find the cap'n and T'Pol."

"In my opinion, the _last_ thing we need is Darala's cooperation," Malcolm replied. "Darala's been lying to us since day one. This whole thing has been one long dog-and-pony show. She wanted to get rid of Arat Atanoma, so what better way than to serve him up as the culprit and have him executed?"

"That's a hell of an accusation, Malcolm."

"Yes, well, then try this one on for size. We know that Darala got herself into hot water with Atanoma after her little show. The People are nothing if not . . . insular, but Darala's got this curiosity about humans. She wants to know what we're like. So she indulges herself with the captain, who's a bit more of a gentleman about it than is strictly reasonable. He goes along with it, out of politeness, or diplomacy, or some chemical assistance, whatever. But then she gets a little more than she bargains for: it triggers a backlash, her lover doesn't just get upset - he turns around and joins the opposition. Then the shuttle blows up, kind of, sort of, but not really, and we show up demanding answers. _Now_ she's got to get rid of him before he blows the whistle on their little relationship or passes on any pillow talk secrets. And suddenly all roads lead back to Arat and his cousin, Jin Sava. _Very_ convenient."

"You think she planned the whole thing? Not just kissing off Arat but actually trying to get rid of the captain and T'Pol?"

Sighing, Reed replied, "Honestly? No. But I do think she takes advantage of every little thing she can. She may not have known about the kidnapping scheme, but she certainly did nothing to come to Arat's defense when he was caught in the middle of it. She could have come clean, at least about her part in this whole thing, the minute we confronted her with the surveillance video. But no, she just let that guy get taken into custody and interrogated, knowing that it would be the end of him. Problem solved, and her secret's safe. I just don't think Dr. Fenree got the memo that she wasn't actually supposed to get a confession out of him before he died."

Trip winced. He wasn't ready to deal with the memory of watching a person being tortured to death. He started walking again, this time at a slower pace. "The real mystery, Malcolm, is where they took our people. Arat or no Arat, there was a plan in place to make it look like that shuttle went boom. Our people were taken somewhere, and for some particular reason. And I think if we find those missing Vya, we find T'Pol and the captain and Crewman Egawa. I want to check in with Hoshi and Travis, see what they have for us. Then we need to sit down and figure out what we do now." He ran a hand through his sticky, sweaty hair and ruefully fantasized for a second about the cool, soapy shower he'd been promising himself for three days now. That would have to wait. "There are too many questions we don't have answers to for us to contact Gardner, Malcolm. I'll do it as soon as I have something concrete to tell them."

In the end, the transmission to Starfleet Command would have to wait for other reasons. No sooner had Trip checked in with the Bridge crew and sat down behind the desk in the Ready Room, than Hoshi commed him.

"_Sir, there's a transmission coming from The World_." Her voice had the familiar tension that meant she wasn't talking about a routine message.

"I'll be right there."

Long strides took him back to the Bridge in about ten seconds. By that time, Hoshi had deciphered the message and cued it up on audio. "It came through highly encrypted, and on this odd frequency," she said.

"Let's hear it."

The voice was unmistakably Shevon's, but strained and rushed. "_I have information_," she said, "_I cannot transmit again_." Then there followed a series of numbers, another code, Trip supposed, but the pattern of the sequence seemed familiar somehow.

"What–" he began.

"Coordinates," Travis supplied quietly from the navigation console, pulling up a longitude/latitude map. "Looks like it's kind of on the outskirts of the capital, but nowhere near any of the landing facilities."

Trip met Reed's eye. "Transporter." Reed nodded and sprinted off into the lift.

"Can you send a message back, acknowledging? I need her not to move from that spot."

Hoshi nodded. "I can send a little blast – like that," she tapped a few keys, "so she knows we heard her. Hopefully, she'll stay put for just a minute."

They stood in silence, waiting. Trip resisted the urge to drum his fingers on Hoshi's console. She hated that. He had no illusions as to what would happen to the aide if she were caught communicating with the humans, _personae non gratae_ as they were. "Come _on_, Malcolm," he muttered under his breath.

Hoshi's comm. beeped. "_Commander_," Malcolm said crisply, "_we have a guest_."

Trip let out a breath. "Bring her to the Briefing Room, Malcolm," he directed. "I'm on my way."

Maybe now, finally, they would catch a damn break.

* * *

First things first. "Did anybody follow you?"

"I was as careful as I could be," Shevon answered. "I didn't know who else to trust." She laid a recorder on the table, and everyone in the room understood at once that, should she be caught now, she would be tried and executed as a traitor to The People. Whatever information was on that device was not meant for human ears.

Trip studied her for a moment, then rose to press the comm. "Tucker to the Bridge."

"_Mayweather here, sir_."

Trip made a mental note to assign someone to relieve Travis. He didn't think the helmsman had been off duty for more than an hour at a time since the captain had disappeared. "Prepare to take us out of orbit, Travis."

"_Aye, sir. Heading_?"

Trip eyed Shevon, then replied, "Stand by. I'll get back to you on that in a minute." He closed the connection. "Okay, I'm all ears."

The alien woman paused, then picked up the small apparatus. Trip recognized it as her people's version of a padd, a translator/recorder/data analysis device that he had not seen her without since he'd been on The World. With obvious trepidation, she switched it on and placed it back on the table gently.

As Hoshi translated the words into Standard English, the recorder yielded its information. A transmission, a set of coordinates, a rendezvous time and place. The instructions were chilling in their simplicity: _You are to dispose of the subjects. You are to have the product ready when I arrive. Leave no trace. _

"Where did this transmission originate?" Reed asked quietly.

Shevon twisted her fingers together in her lap, a gesture of distress that humans and The People seemed to share. "It came from inside the Great Hall, the secret room." She dropped her voice, as if afraid of being overheard even here, miles above The World.

"Whoa, _wait_," Trip said, holding his hands up. "I thought it was impossible to intercept anything said in that room. Geren Liaison specifically said that it was impervious to eavesdropping."

Trip was pretty sure Shevon's expression, had she been human, would have said, _Oh, please_. But she was trained for diplomacy, so she merely commented, "It would be foolish to have a safeguard that you yourself could not defeat." She picked up the recorder. "This is not the only transmission to be sent on this frequency. I retrieved two others, as well. Whoever sent them tried to erase them, but, . . ." She trailed off, manipulating the controls of her device. A 3-D map appeared in the space above the table.

"But data's never really lost," Hoshi supplied, bending closer to the holographic display, "if you know where to look."

"Precisely," Shevon replied absently. "The first transmission was long distance. I do not have the ability to determine its final destination. Somewhere toward the far edge of the system, I would guess. But the second was short-range." She traced a finger in a small arc from Carah Shon outward. The tip of her finger stopped just inside a grainy-looking cloud. "It was received here."

Trip frowned, and walked quickly over to a wall-mounted computer screen. "Look at this." He called up and played the recording of the diplomatic shuttle, supposedly carrying T'Pol, Egawa, and the captain, entering the pink mist and disintegrating in a short burst of blue flame. "There's your remote signal," he said.

"Sir," Hoshi put in, "this last transmission was sent on exactly the same frequency as the first, and probably to the same place." She made the same tracing motion on the display, and the line of the third message corresponded exactly with the first. "Someone on the World is calling all the shots."

_Dispose of the subjects_. Trip was already moving toward the comm once again. "How long ago was that third transmission sent, Shevon?"

"Less than two hours, by your time. I didn't know what else to do but to contact you immediately."

"Tucker to Bridge. Take us out of orbit, Travis." Trip rattled off the heading. "Best speed, until I tell you otherwise."

"_Aye, sir_," Travis responded, with the voice of a man relieved to be in action once again.

Shevon radiated the color of nervousness, even fear, as she stood uncertainly in the center of the conference room. Trip made a concerted effort to slow down, to tamp down the impatience screaming through him. Forcing a calm smile, he gestured to a seat at the large table, and took a seat opposite the Carah Shon woman. Malcolm sat beside him, trying to look harmless, while Hoshi gave quiet support on the visitor's left.

"Is anybody going to miss you anytime soon, Shevon?"

"No one will think to look for me until after the rains end, tomorrow morning." She glanced up at Trip. "Although it's unlikely now that I can ever go back home. I have betrayed my people, and I have no defense." A wave of green washed over her, and Trip interpreted it as deep, deep sorrow.

Trip knew better than to promise her asylum, having learned his lesson the hardest possible way, but he reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. "We'll do everything we can, and I know the captain will too, when he gets back."

* * *

The unfamiliar motion of the craft caused an uncomfortable sensation of vertigo, which T'Pol tried mightily to ignore. More difficult to block out was the muttering and whispering emanating from Crewman Egawa. When she finally rose against the heavy, dark atmosphere and made her way across the tiny deck, she found him staring fixedly at the dimly lit communication controls. He seemed to be carrying on a conversation with himself, none of which made any sense to her.

"Mr. Egawa," she prodded, and shook his shoulder.

He turned to her with a glazed expression. "They don't ever warn you," he mumbled hoarsely. His eyes were rimmed with red, his lips dry and cracked. She could hear every breath searing through his lungs. "Nobody ever gets it."

"Crewman, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

He struggled to draw air. "Olympus is too far, I think." His body convulsed as a hacking cough overtook him. He seemed almost too weak to fight it. "The gods don't really laugh, you know; they sigh."

"Crewman – Jamey, you need to hold on for a while longer. _Enterprise_ is on her way." T'Pol was past any shame now; she knew enough about the humans with whom she had served for so long to offer some hope of rescue, however false, as a way to keep the man from giving up completely. _Vulcans do not lie, except when they do. _She hoped that sheer stubbornness was a widely shared human trait. "Jamey, you must continue working on the beacon. That's an order."

Egawa groaned, "No, thanks, I'm not hungry." He gripped her forearm hard for a second, before his eyes rolled back and he slumped to the deck.

T'Pol fumbled around at his wrist for a pulse. Even without a medical scanner, she knew Egawa was dying. She sat back on her haunches and wiped her perspiring brow with the back of her hand. Suddenly the helm seemed too far away to reach, and what would she do if she got there, anyway? She stifled a cough and wrapped her arms around herself. She must have knocked the craft's thermostat off-line; she felt uncomfortably cold and clammy. _Enterprise_ wasn't usually this chilly. She'd have to bring the matter up with the captain when she saw him next.

She lay down, pressing her cheek to the freezing deck plate. It seemed odd not to have the captain here at her side. Most disasters and away missions gone wrong usually involved him somehow. It was just as well, she thought. She liked the silence. If Archer were here, he would only spend their last moments talking, talking, talking.

They all talked too much. Even in her dreams, as she drifted on clouds of fever for moments or hours, she could hear the insistent human voices calling her_, Come in, come in, come in . . _.

The invitation was hard to resist. She hoped that, wherever they were, it was at least warm there.


	10. Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad

**Chapter Ten - Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad**

Trip took a deep breath before signaling the double doors to Sickbay. They slid open four seconds before a small, brown bundle launched itself at Trip's legs. He stooped down and petted the small beagle, running his fingers through the short hair on the dog's throat. "Hey, Porthos, hi, Doc," he greeted.

Phlox ambled over, watching as Porthos took one last sniff of Trip's boot, and returned to his pallet to lie down. "Commander," he replied amiably. "Nice to see you. What can I do for you?"

Trip felt a little bit of the weight leave his shoulders. No matter what else occurred, he could always count on the Denobulan's compassion and support. He sidled over to a bio-bed and leaned against it, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. "Ah, there's nothing wrong with me, Doc. I just needed to get off the Bridge, get some air."

"I assume that is a figure of speech, Commander, since the same air is recycled throughout the ship." Phlox smiled kindly, amused. "I would think that you, as the ship's engineer, would know that." A small smile touched Trip's mouth. Point for Phlox. "I noticed that we've broken orbit," the doctor went on.

"Yeah. We may have gotten a lead on the cap'n's whereabouts. It's a long shot, but it's the only real break we've had." Phlox waited for Trip to elaborate on the nature of the information, but the commander didn't volunteer anything. Instead, Trip gestured to Porthos with his chin. "You think he gets nervous when you bring him down here with all his stuff?"

Phlox shot a puzzled glance toward the dog. "I don't experiment on him, if that's what you're asking."

"No, of course not! I mean, well, we used to have a dog when I was a kid. Bedford. Big as a horse, practically. Wasn't afraid of anything at all. But try to get him into the family car, he'd shake and whimper. 'Cuz the only time we ever drove him anywhere in the family car was when we took him to the vet. And you know what happens at the vet." Trip shrugged. "Just like Porthos only stays down here when the cap'n's missing. You think Porthos ever starts worrying that maybe the cap'n might not come back this time?"

There was a short silence as Phlox gave this some consideration. "I don't believe canines have developed the ability to hypothesize, Commander," he said finally. "As far as he knows, the captain is just as likely to come back this time as he has every other."

Trip eased himself up onto the bio-bed. Phlox reached over and turned off the sensor. "I guess I envy Porthos, then, Doc."

"Really, Commander? And why is that?"

"Because not a second goes by that I'm not wondering about . . . about what's happening with T'Pol and Egawa and the cap'n. Whether anything at all is happening, or if they're all already . . . gone." He snorted derisively. "Listen to me, I can't even say the word out loud."

"Commander, the captain is very resourceful, as is T'Pol. And they are both in good hands with Crewman Egawa." Phlox paused, then added, "And the ship is in good hands with you, Commander Tucker."

Trip looked down. He should have known that the doctor would read him like a book. "The thing is, Doc," he said, "I really have no reason to believe that they're still alive. Well, I mean, I'm pretty sure T'Pol is, just because . . . anyway, that's a long story." Phlox was pretty open-minded, but even he might look askance if Trip told him he could feel T'Pol's living presence in his mind. "But, it's been over a week. And I'm not sure if it's just that I am making myself believe they're okay because I _need_ them to be okay."

"You said that you have gotten a new 'lead,'" Phlox pointed out. "The young lady from the diplomatic corps appeared to be very eager to assist us. Surely that gives you some hope, hmm?"

Trip picked a hypospray up from a nearby tray table and began to fiddle with it. "Malcolm's debriefing her now. He, uh, he made me leave the room because he said I was too intense." Phlox huffed a short laugh; the Commander must be wound pretty tightly indeed if the_ lieutenant_ came out the more mellow of the two. "Even if she gives us everything we need, we could already be too late."

The doctor reached over and gently pulled the hypo out of Trip's restless fingers. No use in letting the Acting Captain inject himself with unneeded analgesic. "It's perhaps not a good idea to borrow trouble, Commander. We can only hope for the best, and prepare for the worst. In the meantime, there's no use in allowing yourself to get run down. I would venture to guess that you've had very little food and even less sleep since you've been back on board." He forestalled Trip's protest with a raised hand. "I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do, Commander, but I would recommend that you get at least _some_ nutrition – not just coffee, please – and spend at least a few minutes in your quarters."

"I'm not –"

Up went the hand again. "Preparing for the worst means making sure you are physically able to deal with whatever comes along, hmm? So, as your doctor _and_ as your friend, that is my recommendation."

Trip sighed, bowing out of the argument gracefully. "Okay. How is the crew doing, generally? Anything I should know about?"

"Oh, some headaches, minor sleeplessness. Two fistfights, a swollen lip – nothing serious. All typical symptoms of stress. And who could blame them, really. Having two of your commanding officers missing is a cause for some anxiety, to say the least." Trip nodded thoughtfully. "You might consider updating the crew on what you know at this point. Just to reassure them."

"Have an all-hands meeting?"

"Hmm, yes, all of your hands," Phlox answered doubtfully.

"Thanks, Doc," Trip chuckled, "I think I'll do that." He slid off the bio-bed and walked backwards toward the Sickbay doors. "Let me know if these . . . crew symptoms get worse, okay? I don't know what we'll find when we get to where we're going, but I need everyone to bring their A-game."

"A-game, yes," Phlox said, adding to the list of expressions to ask Ensign Sato about. "And, remember, Commander: expect the best."

Trip turned to press the door open button with his thumb. "Right. Thanks, Doc. See you, Porthos." The beagle merely raised his brows as the doors slid shut.

After forty-five minutes of lying on his bunk staring at the overhead lights, Trip figured he'd complied sufficiently with Phlox's wishes. He took a quick shower and changed his uniform. Flicking a glance at his computer, he decided to let the call to Starfleet wait just a little bit longer.

He'd promised the doctor that he'd get something worthwhile to eat, too, so he stopped in the Mess. It was mostly deserted; the clock on the wall told him that it was nearly twenty-three hundred hours. He chuckled a little as he remembered Archer's stubbornness in refusing, absolutely, to align the ship's chronometers with the capital city of the Kretassan home world, despite the Kretassans' insistence that not to do so was discourteous. The sleep-deprived, testy captain had pointed out – loudly – that jet-lagging the whole crew on the whim of a cranky race of aliens who couldn't ever be satisfied anyway would be a far sight more offensive. T'Pol had ended up complying with the Kretassans' wishes without clearing it with Archer - and the captain had promptly re-jiggered the duty roster so that the change in "local" time ended up having no practical effect. The ship's crew, if not her clocks, had stayed synchronized with San Francisco standard time.

Maybe Admiral Gardner would still be awake. He might even be in his office at Headquarters. Trip shrugged as he snagged the last plate of what looked like it had once been chicken piccata. He might as well let Malcolm and Hoshi finish debriefing Shevon and make a full report in the morning.

He was self-aware enough to recognize that he was stalling.

Reed was on the Bridge when Trip stepped out of the turbo lift, stuffing the last third of a breadstick into his mouth. Travis had the helm – damn, he'd forgotten to assign someone to relieve him – and Ensign Stackhouse occupied Science. She had her eyes glued to the viewer, carefully scanning, he assumed, each square kilometer of the space around them.

"Commander," Reed said, coming briefly to attention. "I thought you'd be catching some sleep."

"I already got an earful from Dr. Phlox, Malcolm. I had my naptime like a good boy." Trip slid into the captain's chair and called up the ship's status reports on the arm screen. "You're done with Shevon Oreevi? She have anything else to add?"

"She was very helpful," Reed replied. "She and Hoshi are going over all of the interviews we did on Carah Shon, trying to determine who was behind those transmissions. One thing is still puzzling, though. What happened to those babies – the Vya that Dr. Fenree was talking about. I can't figure out why anyone would kidnap them."

Trip's response was cut off by Ensign Stackhouse's sudden sharp motion. For the first time, Trip noticed that Stackhouse had Hoshi's aural monitor positioned in her ear. "Sir," she said, not distinguishing between Reed and Tucker, "I'm getting something really strange . . ." She pressed a finger to her earpiece. "It's absolutely a pattern, but I don't recognize the configuration. It may be a distress signal."

"Put it on audio," Trip ordered, wondering if he should summon Hoshi.

The speakers came alive with a staccato pattern. It was polyphonic; the notes were recognizable on the musical scale. It stopped, then repeated. Yes, it was definitely a short, simple, familiar tune, seven beats, as if tapped out by one finger on a keyboard. There was a perceptible pause, then the pattern repeated. Seven notes, pause, repeat. Trip couldn't place it for a moment; it teased at his memory, and then the penny dropped.

"Can you locate the source of the signal, Ensign?"

Eager to prove her worth, Stackhouse nodded. "I've already narrowed down the area, sir." Trip gestured toward Travis with his index finger. "Sending to helm now, sir."

Reed frowned. "Are you sure that this –"

"Don't you _hear_ that, Malcolm? Don't you recognize it?" Trip began to hum along, insistently. How could he be the only person in the room to know the tune? It _had_ to be the captain – only someone who'd sat in darkened movie theatres or watched videos of Earth entertainment would know this signal. "DUH-da-da-DUH-da, duh-DUH!" Blank faces stared back at him. "SHAVE and a HAIRcut, two BITS!" He demonstrated this last, complete with foot stomp, exaggerated stage smile, and jazz hands.

Reed stared at him as if the commander had become abruptly unhinged. But Travis simply muttered, "I'd have gone for '_Close Encounters of the Third Kind_,' myself."

"Coming up on the signal, putting it up on visual," Stackhouse said evenly, refusing to be drawn into the musical debate. The screen came to life, and the four officers found themselves staring at a nondescript oval ship, each hoping that they would find their crewmembers alive inside.

The ship was hurtling toward _Enterprise_ at a surprisingly high rate. On its present path, it would pass a few kilometers off the starboard side. "Set an intercept course, Travis," Trip said, intending to head it off at the pass.

The helmsman smoothly made the heading change and reduced speed. Ensign Stackhouse hailed the pod. "This is _Enterprise_, please respond."

Her efforts yielded silence. Trip shot a worried look toward Reed, and then ordered shortly, "Scan it." He had simply assumed that the captain was onboard, but maybe he'd been wrong.

His heart sank when Reed informed him, "I read two bio-signs, Commander."

Two, not three. They had lost one. He cleared his throat and swung around to Stackhouse, whose hands were already flying across T'Pol's station. He didn't know what to hope for.

Finally, Stackhouse raised her head. "Two bio-signs confirmed, sir. One Vulcan, one human."

"Hail 'em again, Ensign," Trip said, trying not to betray either his joy or his disappointment.

Stackhouse began calling, "This is _Enterprise_, come in. Commander T'Pol, please come in. . . ."

Reed started to say, "Commander –" but he was cut off by Mayweather's urgent, "Sirs, the pod keeps changing course. It won't let me intercept."

"I'm not getting any response," Stackhouse added.

"What the hell is she doing?" Trip demanded quietly. "Even if she doesn't have visual, she has to know it's us. Try again, Travis. Stackhouse, keep hailing."

A frustrating minute later, both ensigns reported negative success. "Dammit," Trip exploded quietly. "What's going on here?"

Reed spoke from Tactical. "I'm still reading only two bio-signs, so one or the other has to be in control of the ship." He considered for a second, then added, "Unless it's on autopilot."

"It's current trajectory would take it back into the Carah Shon system, sir," Stackhouse said.

Trip sighed. He almost didn't want to give voice to his next command, but he could see no other way around it. "Malcolm, can you target their engines?"

Reed did a few calculations – or re-calculations, really, since he automatically identified the important weak points of any unknown vessel in the vicinity of _Enterprise_, a habit ingrained in him by seven years of exploratory space travel and many unfriendly first contacts. "Yes, I'm pretty sure I can manage it," he said.

"_Without_ blowing them to pieces?" Trip clarified.

"Commander," Reed said patiently, "just give the word."

Trip gripped the arm rest of the command chair and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "Fire, Malcolm."

Everybody on the Bridge flinched involuntarily as they imagined, rather than felt, the energy beam leaving the ship. A tiny pinpoint of light struck the pod on its underside, and a faint plume of smoke appeared. Inertia kept the pod moving in its original direction, drifting only slightly off course.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Trip ordered Travis to pass over the top of the small ship. "Malcolm, prepare the grappler."

Although the pod was tiny – dwarfed entirely by the starship like a mouse by an elephant – Reed snagged it on the second try. He tasked Stackhouse with drawing it gently into the launch bay, then followed Trip off the Bridge at a run.

Two MACOs and two security officers met Reed and Trip at the launch bay. They all waited impatiently for the decompression cycle to finish, red lights turning green as the ship's computer systematically checked the alien vessel. Finally, the last green light flashed, and Reed stepped forward to press the hatch release. A security guard handed him a flashlight, and the MACOs drew their own deadly weapons.

The pod's hatch opened slowly, and, to Trip's dismay, nobody emerged immediately. There was no sound. The air inside was cold, clammy, and stale. After a beat, Reed directed the light into the dark interior of the pod. From behind, Trip saw his shoulders tense.

"Malcolm?" Trip felt a tingle of apprehension. _Please don't let them be dead_.

Malcolm backed out quickly and strode to the wall comm.

"Lieutenant Reed to Sickbay."

"_This is Phlox_."

"Please report to the Launch Bay, Doctor. Immediately."

It was Phlox's professional opinion that T'Pol and Egawa, both unconscious, should spend a vital thirty minutes in Decon before being brought to Sickbay, despite Egawa's perilously high fever and T'Pol's unknown condition. His cursory scan showed a virus that he didn't recognize, and, as he explained succinctly to Commander Tucker, he had no idea how contagious it might be. He also insisted that Trip and Malcolm, along with their security personnel, cool their heels in the Decon chamber as well, after T'Pol and Egawa had been evacuated to Sickbay.

Trip accepted the Chief Medical Officer's recommendation with good grace, but every minute in the chamber was dominated by his memory of T'Pol's still, ashen face. Before Phlox's tinny voice could complete the obligatory, "You are free to go," Trip was struggling into his boots and heading out the door.

In the bright light of Sickbay, only one bio-bed was occupied. T'Pol lay, still unconscious, underneath a beeping screen showing the outline of her body and her vital signs. Phlox stood next to the main computer, entering notes from his padd and scrutinizing the analysis marching down the large screen. He greeted the commander as he burst through the doors, and glanced at the bio-monitor.

In answer to Trip's unvoiced question, the doctor said, "Commander T'Pol is stable for the moment, Commander Tucker." His tone was characteristically jaunty, and gave no indication whether he thought Trip's concern for his fellow officer was appropriate or not. Trip eyed the monitor, but didn't know what Vulcan normal looked like. "I'm running some tests to determine the nature of the virus she and Crewman Egawa seem to be infected with." Phlox moved to a different monitor and punched a few keys. "I have not so far been able to narrow it down to a particular virus," a multi-coloured diagram filled the screen, "but the symptoms seem to be consistent with. . . influenza."

"They have the _flu_?" Trip couldn't keep the disbelief from his expression.

If Phlox thought it odd that Trip wandered over to the bio-bed and took hold of T'Pol's unresponsive hand, he didn't say. "It has characteristics and some of the symptoms of the human flu, but if that's what it is, then I would say that it has unquestionably mutated."

Trip looked around the room. "Where's Egawa?" he asked belatedly.

Phlox gestured across the room. "Crewman Egawa's condition is much more serious than T'Pol's, so I have placed him in the imaging chamber, as a kind of life support. It makes it easier for me to keep an eye on his condition. At this point, I don't know if he has been exposed longer than T'Pol has, or if he has been infected with a stronger strain, or if T'Pol's Vulcan constitution is simply more resistant than a human's."

"Should I be worried about a general plague on board?" Trip tried not to sound alarmed.

"A quarantine is not necessary, Commander," Phlox replied. "My patients appear to have passed the point of contagion."

Trip studied the readings some more. The blanket over her chest rose and fell at a rapid rate. "How in the world could they contract a human flu way the hell out here?" he murmured, more to himself than to the doctor.

"Ah, that I believe I can answer," Phlox said, moving to T'Pol's bedside. He pointed to four puncture marks, laid out in a precise square, almost completely scabbed over. "Egawa has the same marks. I am fairly certain that they were deliberately injected with the pathogen. It has survived mostly intact in their bloodstreams, which tells me that the virus was, shall we say, 'pure' when it was introduced, and that neither Egawa nor T'Pol has any natural resistance to this particular strain. But as I said," he added quickly, as the blood drained from Trip's face, "T'Pol is stable, and Crewman Egawa is responding as well. I should be able to isolate the precise virus in the next few hours, and then I'll be able to develop an anti-virus."

"You sound . . . optimistic, Doc."

Phlox spared him the full stretchy smile, but replied comfortably, "Oh, I am very optimistic, Commander."

Trip's eyes drifted back to T'Pol's face. He hadn't realized before how mobile her face really was when she was conscious, despite her supposed lack of emotion. He let his fingertips linger on the smooth line of her jaw, unmindful of Phlox's interested regard. "But what you're saying is that someone out there has this virus – in some lab somewhere? And if it's human based, then they would have to have gotten it from us."

"I said it has _characteristics_ similar to a human virus," Phlox stressed, "but it may very well have been entirely engineered to look that way."

Trip closed his eyes for a worried moment. "If that's supposed to make me feel better, Doc, I've gotta tell you, it doesn't." Phlox frowned; he wasn't sure himself which of the two scenarios could be considered "the better case": a deadly illness unleashed on the universe by humans, or a genetically engineered virus in the hands of aliens unknown.

"Any sign of the captain?" Phlox ventured after a moment.

Trip shook his head, once again fighting against the sense of despair. Finding T'Pol and Egawa in that pod had been a triumph, to be sure, but it had almost killed any hope of rescuing the captain alive. Because if T'Pol had been able to do otherwise, she would never have left the captain wherever he was. Trip could only conclude that the captain was irretrievably lost, or that he was dead. That was the only way he could see T'Pol leaving him behind.

"Commander," Phlox said softly, "when T'Pol awakes, she will most likely be able to give you the answers you need. In the meantime, you don't know that the captain is gone."

Trip looked meaningfully at the imaging chamber. Phlox read his expression and twitched. "We found Egawa just in the nick of time," Trip said. "And, even so, we're crossing our fingers here, hoping for some damned good luck." _What chance does the captain have if he's still out there, infected and untreated?_ He left that last unsaid.

"Commander, . . ." Phlox was looking significantly less optimistic now. Trip felt a twinge of guilt. The doctor was doing everything he could. _Enterprise_ could not have asked for a more skilled virologist, and if anyone could pull T'Pol and Egawa through this, it was this dedicated doctor. And it was his, Trip's, job to find the captain, not Phlox's. After a moment, Trip nodded. "You're right, Doc. I'm sorry. I know you're doing everything you can."

The comm. buzzed softly, and Reed's voice said, "_Lieutenant Reed to Commander Tucker_."

Trip let go of T'Pol's hand and used the wall speaker. "Yeah, Tucker."

"_Commander, when you have a moment, please come to the launch bay. We've analyzed the pod. I think you'll be interested in the results_."

"On my way." Although Reed's voice was carefully neutral, Trip felt the shadow lift slightly. Maybe, just maybe, their luck was beginning to turn.

As he walked past the doctor, he reached out and clasped the Denobulan briefly by the shoulder. They both recognized the gesture for what it was: how many times had they seen Archer encourage a member of his crew this way, wordlessly asking for the best the person had to offer, and conveying absolute confidence that he would get it. Phlox smiled slightly in response. "I won't let you down, Commander Tucker," he promised.

Trip gave him the thumbs up sign and headed out of Sickbay.

Reed was looking quite satisfied with himself when Trip arrived at the launch bay. The protective sheeting had been pulled back from the pod; a decontamination crew in full EVA gear had been over every inch of the vessel, inside and out, to determine whether there was any trace of the virus remaining before allowing Reed to conduct his forensic examination. Now the lieutenant climbed out of the tiny ship, a scrap of cloth dangling from his hand. Hoshi and Shevon stood to the side, bent over Shevon's translator.

"Commander," Reed said, "we have the beginnings of a bit of good news."

Trip smiled slightly. Reed was back to his glass-half-empty self. "Okay, Malcolm, make my day, or at least my morning."

Malcolm handed Trip three databadges. Succinctly, he explained that the information they contained belonged to the captain, T'Pol, and Egawa. "T'Pol and Egawa's escape was not an accident. The trajectory was pre-programmed, as was the distress beacon. Apparently, when he couldn't shut it off, Egawa figured out how to change the distress pattern itself, hoping that we, specifically, would recognize it if we picked it up." He unfolded two pieces of cloth, one slightly bigger than the other. Trip could see that they were both covered in symbols. "Whoever arranged it left some pretty good clues as to who they are. We found these inside."

Trip studied them briefly. "Okay."

"Here's the good news. Shevon recognized the writing. She could even read a little of it." Reed paused. "Commander, we know what species this is. And we've recreated the pod's route, thanks to the data in its 'black box.' We have a fairly good idea where it originated."

Trip turned to Shevon, who, he noticed for the first time, was wearing Reed's away-mission parka. With everything else on his mind, he hadn't considered until this very moment how _Enterprise'_s temperature, kept on the low side of human-normal, must feel like Antarctica to her. "Ms Oreevi?" he prompted.

Shevon began nervously, "The People have been in an alliance with The Explorers for many generations. That's our name for them. I do not know what they call themselves. Nobody can pronounce it."

"I thought you knew their language," Trip said.

"Their written language, yes. But The Explorers communicate through sounds that none of the People have ever been able to duplicate. It just sounds like clicks and whistles and sometimes other noises that I wouldn't even be able to describe, let alone reproduce."

"Go on," Reed prompted.

"The Explorers have no home world. They are nomads. As children, we were taught that they nearly wiped themselves out as a species in a great civil war. Only a few survived, and their planet was rendered uninhabitable because of the massive amounts of radiation. The ones who escaped made their way to The World in small, not very well crafted ships. By then, there were fewer than one thousand of them in total. The People took them in. We learned that they were very gifted in medicine. Based on their knowledge and research, The People obtained cures for many diseases within the space of a generation."

"How could you learn all that, if you couldn't communicate?" Hoshi wanted to know.

"We were much more advanced than they were, technologically, even at that time. It was one of my direct ancestors, in fact, Mieran Ob Truv, who developed their communication technology. He discovered that The Explorers 'projected' to each other, and that the sounds they made were in addition to this other kind of non-verbal communication. So Truv designed an interface, a device that would translate the projection into audible language. Over the years, this was perfected, and now The Explorers can project visual images as well." Shevon blinked a smile. "It's really quite remarkable – if they project to you, they can even appear as anyone you've known, and you can physically touch them as if the person were actually there."

"Sounds creepy," Reed commented, uncomfortable with anything that sounded like mind control.

"There are only a few Explorers left on The World," Shevon went on. "As the name we've given them suggests, they eventually went back to their nomadic ways, with the help of The People's technology. They are still our closest allies and partners."

Reed spread the cloths out on a nearby table. "How much of this can you read?"

Shevon peered at the writing. "I can tell that this one is a map to some sort of facility. See, this means corridor or tunnel; that's an opening or a vent. I know it sounds crazy, but I think these are escape directions." She pointed to the smaller piece. "And some of these symbols are the same as inside that ship."

Trip snatched up the smaller cloth and ducked into the pod to check that theory. After a moment he bounded out. "These are instructions for flying that pod."

Hoshi frowned. "Someone deliberately set it up so that T'Pol and Jamey could escape? Why in the world would they do that?"

"A Trojan horse, maybe?" Trip mused. "They knew we'd bring the pod aboard. Maybe they wanted the virus to infect all of us."

"What virus?" Reed and Hoshi and Shevon all said simultaneously.

Trip summarized in lay terms what Phlox had told him, careful to convey the doctor's confidence that a cure was both possible and imminent. "Phlox thinks that maybe this virus was engineered. If what you're telling me is true, Malcolm, and these databadges somehow ended up at this facility," he gestured to the pieces of cloth, "then I think we've found our kidnapping motive." He looked at Shevon, whose changing colors reflected her horror.

Finally, she smoothed her hand across the fabric, shoulders drooping. "Then it seems the alliance between The Explorers and The People has become a conspiracy. And I do not know how far or how high it goes, or who can be trusted."


	11. Odd Alliances

**Chapter Eleven - Odd Alliances**

Archer swam up through layers of fog and mist. His head pounded like the aftermath of an ill-advised bender. He pried his eyes open, and shifted uncomfortably. Testing his limbs for injury, one by one, he found that his wrists were manacled together in front of him. The angled chair creaked beneath him, and his gaze automatically flew to the workbench across the room. Lab Tech wasn't there. Its equipment was neatly stacked, waiting, perhaps, for yet another round of "cooperation." His mind skittered away from the memory. The past twelve or so hours were on their way to being buried as deeply inside his sub-conscious as he could manage. He was exhausted, deeply ashamed, and – dammit – _sore_. It was no consolation that Lab Tech had begun to seem more and more reluctant and perhaps even apologetic each time it approached him for a fresh specimen. Each time, Archer had been torn between hoping that whatever experiment Lab Tech was conducting would work already and he would be spared further violation, and praying that the assignment would be a dismal failure for the sake of some unnamed, doomed race.

As the long minutes passed, he didn't know whether Lab Tech had finally succeeded or simply given up. He didn't have any more defenses, and had stopped struggling against the inevitable long ago. After a while, Archer drifted off into a restless, angry, exhausted sleep.

In his dreams, he moved in sensual almost-contact with Darala, her eyes blinking sideways as she led him to a wide red couch. She pushed him backwards, smiling mysteriously, as she stripped the clothing from him with one motion. He was unable to rise now, and he thrashed helplessly on the couch, catching a glimpse of his First Officer watching him, unmoving, in the shadows. He couldn't make a sound, only opened his mouth wider and wider in a silent scream, trying to form her name. She stared at him blankly, and withdrew deeper into the darkness. Somehow, he knew she wasn't coming back for him, and he surrendered himself to the harsh, insistent hands pulling him apart.

Those hands eventually became solid as he was awakened by a seemingly frantic Lab Tech. The alien unlocked his legs, and, using the electromagnetic pole, yanked Archer to a sitting position. The pole gave Lab Tech an advantage that Archer could not overcome. He tumbled off of the chair and onto the floor, taking the brunt of the fall on his wrists and elbows. He managed to put his knees underneath himself but lacked the leverage to raise himself back up to his feet. Lab Tech seemed not to care, dragging the human almost effortlessly along the smooth floor and across a wide hall. Ignoring Archer's grunts of pain and protest, Lab Tech shoved him unceremoniously into a wall access vent and disengaged the electromagnetic pole. It fastened a cold, scaled hand across Archer's mouth and pressed, unmistakably conveying, _Shut the hell up._ The access panel slammed into place.

That was when Archer realized that he was crouched in a corner of a very small cube, more a closet than a cell. Even with his long legs bent up, forcing his knees to his bare chest, his toes were jammed against the far wall. If he tilted his head slightly, he had a fairly good view of half of the main room on the other side of the vent screen. Ambient light filtered in dimly. Instinctively, he stayed in the shadow, out of sight.

Now he could hear footsteps, loud and purposeful, along with voices. The door opened, and Lab Tech strode in, followed by Boss Flunky. Two more individuals followed. From his vantage point, Archer could only see up to about chest-high, but it was obvious that the two new beings were of a different species from Lab Tech. They were much taller, and of a different general shape. Bi-pedal, two recognizable hands each - humanoid, then, at least.

They wore clothing suitable for cold weather: thick black trousers and heavy soled black boots – there were no spikes on the toes, so these couldn't be Klingons. The new aliens spoke at length, their tone and cadence even and calm, using actual words instead of squeaks and hisses. The language sounded vaguely familiar to Archer, recognizable but not decipherable, in the way that Russian or Hebrew would be to his untrained, Standard English-accustomed ear.

Boss Flunky seemed especially agitated. It chirped and whirred, gesticulating with animation. Beside him, Lab Tech surreptitiously reached into the front pocket of its smock, and suddenly Archer could understand exactly one half of the conversation.

_All is as you requested._ The flat mechanical tone was the same, and he couldn't see anyone's face, but Archer knew that Boss Flunky was the speaker. Lab Tech seemed removed from the situation, almost a disinterested party. _You will be pleased with the results._

These must be the mysterious patrons, Archer realized as one of the new aliens replied, the ones who had commissioned the virus in the first place. He resisted the urge to scoot closer to the mesh screen, to get a better look. Lab Tech's urgency to hide him took on a more sinister meaning. Clearly, the alien was of the opinion that the patrons, whoever or whatever they were, would put Archer to death immediately if they discovered him. He strained his ears to catch the rest of the conversation.

_Yes, there were three._ Boss Flunky said in answer to some unintelligible question. _Two of them attempted to escape, but were disposed of._ Archer's heart sank. T'Pol and Egawa had not made it, then. He pressed his fists against his mouth to keep from making a sound of distress. _The other_ –

_Expired a few hours ago_, Lab Tech cut in, using exactly the same voice.

Archer froze.

_He was immune to the virus, of course, but he had refused nourishment for some time. His body was weak and his functions ceased. It is of no importance, for he was of no further use to us. His physiology would have prevented him from being an effective breeder, in any case._ Lab Tech's wrist flicked, a laugh_. A labor intensive reproductive system. Highly inefficient._

This seemed to satisfy the patrons, as they had no response. Lab Tech drifted over to a cluttered workbench, opened what looked like a cryogenic vault, and retrieved a small silver case. It fumbled with a latch and raised the lid. The patrons moved just close enough to peer inside, but otherwise kept a cautious distance. _Don't worry, they are well sealed_, Lab Tech said, managing to sound condescending even through the translator box.

Archer could only see that the case contained several glassine vials of various sizes. If his theory was correct, they contained both a virus and an antidote, cultivated somehow from his own body. He tensed his muscles for an instant, then slumped. There was no chance at all that he could spring from this cubicle, take out four able-bodied aliens without a weapon of any kind, and somehow find his way out of this prison and back to _Enterprise_. He didn't even know if he was confined on a ship or inside a planetside facility. For all he knew, this could be an orbiting station with no breathable atmosphere beyond these walls.

_Only two hybrids survived,_ Lab Tech went on. _It remains to be seen whether they will continue to thrive outside the laboratory._

The patron's response was less than enthusiastic.

_It was the best we could do in the time provided_, Boss Flunky added, at the tail end of the patron's diatribe. _It took a great deal of time and effort to identify the compatible genetic structures. Of course, you are welcome to recreate our research if you are unsatisfied with the results._

One of the patrons grabbed the case from Lab Tech rather impatiently and fastened the latch, muttering.

_We will need less than one cycle to clear this facility_, Boss Flunky said, trailing the patrons to the door. Lab Tech stayed where it was, hands in pockets. _As we agreed, the payment is ready?_

The patrons didn't bother to answer that question as they strode out the door. It was clear to Archer what the pecking order was. Boss Flunky's questions reverted to clicks and squeals as it moved beyond the range of the translator box.

Lab Tech waited a moment, as if to make sure that Boss Flunky was not immediately coming back, then stepped over to the vent. It unlatched the faceplate and stooped down.

Archer caught his breath sharply and involuntarily recoiled in the tiny space. Lab Tech was no longer wearing its face mask. Its scaly, almost reptilian face was exposed. Archer's mind was thrown back to Darala's shuttle, days – maybe even weeks - before. This was the same alien species that had invaded the shuttle and killed the pilot and flight attendant. He knew first hand that he was physically outmatched, but he also remembered that these aliens were not invincible.

Lab Tech studied Archer for a moment, as if to gauge his reaction - and his intentions. Archer couldn't move, and even if he'd had the power, he was trapped in a box no bigger than a meter square. Lab Tech waited, as if to say, _Well_? But Archer knew when the odds were stacked against him, and right now, he had about a zillion-to-one chance of getting out of this box alive, no matter what he did. After a moment, Lab Tech blinked sideways and put its ungloved hand up. _Stay. It is not safe yet._ It flicked its wrist twice, snapped the vent shut and walked quickly back over to the vault.

Archer frowned. _Safe? What in the hell_ –?

Boss Flunky stomped in, obviously angry. It crossed the room in several paces, and now Archer could see both of them from head to toe. Both still wore their laboratory smocks, but Boss Flunky's was unfastened, showing a stiff brown tunic underneath. Archer did not see a weapon, or even a holster. But that didn't mean there weren't armed guards outside the door, he reminded himself. He decided to follow Lab Tech's lead, at least for the moment. He had no illusions about what a scientist did with its subjects when the experiment was over. Lab Tech's hiding him probably meant only that there was more experimentation in store, not that his life had any intrinsic value to the alien. But then again, Lab Tech seemed to have kept its promise to try to provide a way of escape for T'Pol and Egawa, even if the plan had eventually failed.

Boss Flunky stepped aggressively close to Lab Tech._ The patrons are displeased at the delay._

_We gave them what they asked for_, Lab Tech replied without concern, scanning the contents of the vault with a small sensor. _One cycle earlier or later, what does it matter to the millions they will murder? _

_Watch yourself_, Boss Flunky warned. Lab Tech turned and looked at its colleague without speaking, then resumed its work. Its partner went on. _Think of it this way. You were given free rein with subjects nobody else has encountered before. Your data may be useful for some future research assignment. Certainly, the knowledge you've gained of the_ oomahn _will be very lucrative._

Lab Tech kept its back to Boss Flunky, turning its attention to arranging the remaining vials in the cold storage vault with a set of tongs.

_Many worlds will pay to know all about this species._ Boss Flunky drew a thin cord from its pocket. _What it eats, what its vulnerabilities are, how it can be defeated. The one who controls this information will be very wealthy, indeed_. Lab Tech cried out and flailed suddenly as Boss Flunky wrapped the cord around its neck. The two aliens were of similar build, but Boss Flunky clearly had the advantage. Lab Tech writhed and struggled, trying to escape. It raised its clawed hands, futilely trying to loosen the cord.

Without thinking, Archer kicked the vent off of the cube and launched himself at the pair. The tongs Lab Tech had been using had slid across the floor. Archer tried to grasp the tool, but couldn't get his bound hands to cooperate. He dropped it twice, fumbling each time to pick it up with the edges of his hands. Finally, he managed to curl his fingers around it, holding it like a dagger, and swung at Boss Flunky's head.

Given the choice between offense and defense, Boss Flunky continued to garrote its partner. The alien had a tough skin, almost a carapace, and Archer's blows seemed not to register much at all. With his wrists bound, he had no hope of incapacitating Boss Flunky before Lab Tech lay dead on the floor. His motives were not entirely altruistic; Boss Flunky would not hesitate to kill him once Lab Tech was dispatched. He would take his chances with Lab Tech instead.

As before, Archer had no real chance at succeeding in hand-to-hand combat. It was ironic, he thought briefly, that Surak's _katra_ would have left behind the echo of a memory of a dead language, but not the technique or skill of performing the neck pinch. He flew backward as Boss Flunky shook him off of its back. Lab Tech crumpled to the floor, and the enraged alien turned its attention to Archer.

The captain scooted backward on his behind, trying to stay just out of reach of the alien's clawed fingers. Boss Flunky was quick – and angry. It grasped Archer by the ankle and flung him into the wall. The tongs went flying in the other direction, landing out of reach. Archer rolled as he'd been taught in combat training, and dove away from the killing blow Boss Flunky tried to deliver.

A piece of metal to the left caught his eye. Lab Tech had propped the electromagnetic rod against the wall just inside the door. He lunged for it, and wrapped one hand around the base. Boss Flunky slammed into him. Archer groped desperately along the prod, trying to find the controls, a switch or something to start the energy flowing. But all he felt was the smooth surface.

Lab Tech made a faint noise from the other end of the room, and Boss Flunky paused, clearly torn between finishing off Lab Tech and breaking Archer into pieces. Archer took the opportunity to hit Boss Flunky squarely in the face with tip of the metal rod. He scrambled to his feet, sliding on the slippery-smooth floor.

Boss Flunky began to rise, but froze mid-motion, regarding Archer, who was standing over it with the metal rod in his hand, with its one open eye. It spat out some hisses and squeals, and the box in Lab Tech's pocket snarled, _I will wipe out your whole species_.

Archer gripped the rod with both hands, bent his elbows slightly, and said, "No, not today." Then he stepped into the pitch and swung for the fence.

The copious amount of thin, muddy-looking liquid pooling on the floor underneath Boss Flunky's head satisfied Archer that the alien was dead. He let the pole slide out from between his hands, and considered. His gut told him to make a break for it, to find some way out of this house of horrors. But where would he go? He had no idea where he was inside the facility, and even less clue even in which system the facility was located. He glanced over at Lab Tech, who was slowly staggering to its own feet.

He raised his hands in front of himself. "Why don't we call it even. I'm no further use to you, you said. Just let me make my way out of here." He took a step backward.

Lab Tech studied him. Blood stained the front of its lab suit. _Out there is death_, it said.

"I'll take my chances," Archer replied. He turned toward the door, but pulled up abruptly. The low thrumming sound he had become used to – he had assumed it was a ventilation system – had suddenly stopped. Archer looked around the room, as if he could locate the source of the disturbance. "What – " He didn't finish that sentence, as several things happened at once. He felt the burst of pain in his leg as Boss Flunky discharged the electric prod into his thigh. He saw Lab Tech almost fly across the room toward him, the metal tongs sinking into the other alien's throat. And he heard Boss Flunky's shrieking death cry as the room went black.

* * *

"How're they doing, Doc?" Trip kept his voice hushed as he entered Sickbay. He was heartened by the fact that Egawa was no longer confined to the imaging chamber. Both patients were secluded behind separate curtains, resting on normal bio beds.

Phlox turned around with a smile. "Commander, your timing could not be better. I expect that T'Pol will be rejoining us momentarily."

"She go somewhere?" Trip asked, confused. She'd been unconscious and running a light fever the last time he had checked in.

"No, no," the doctor chuckled. "T'Pol was able to put herself into a light trance – Vulcans find it very beneficial for the healing process. Kind of a way of shutting down all non-essential systems and concentrating on the ones that need healing." He checked some data on a nearby computer monitor. "Right on schedule. She'll still be very weak, so, try not to tax her too much, please. This way, Commander."

Gently pulling the curtain aside, Trip was barely able to contain his relief. T'Pol was indeed awake, and lucid. She lay on her back beneath a white sheet and an additional blanket. She looked exhausted.

"Hey," Trip whispered, summoning a smile. "Welcome back. How do you feel?" He bit back the other, more pressing question, not because he didn't know how to ask it, but because he was afraid of the answer.

T'Pol hesitated, as if taking stock. Trip braced himself for some overly technical exposition, a listing of her vital signs, or a clarification that, as a Vulcan, she did not feel anything in the emotional sense of the word.

"I feel better," she said instead.

He reached over and stroked her hand gently. "You gave us quite a scare, there, you know. We've all been so worried about you." She licked her lips. Trip reached over to the bedside table and picked up the cup of ice chips Phlox had placed there. He slipped a small piece between her lips, hoping she would not be too put off by the fact that he had used his fingertips. She didn't seem to notice, or care. Before he could stop himself, he ran his hand down her cheek and across her jaw, just to convince himself that she was indeed here, in the flesh, and not just some undercurrent in his mind. The Vulcan turned her face toward his palm, as if seeking contact and comfort. Then she gathered herself, and the moment was gone.

"How is Mr. Egawa?"

Phlox replied quietly, "His temperature has decreased by three degrees, at my last check. From every indication, he will recover nicely. The virus has almost completely worked itself out of his system, but it will be a few more days before he is able to be up and around."

T'Pol started to say something else but caught herself. After a moment, she enquired, "You have isolated the pathogen?"

Phlox seemed surprised. "It has many characteristics of a human influenza virus, but it appears to have severely mutated, or, more precisely, to have been engineered. And, frankly, there are aspects of the mutation that I am having some difficulty identifying. I did find one very valuable fact, however. When I cross-referenced the nearest known strain with the captain's and Mr. Egawa's own medical records, I found that Captain Archer had contracted a similar virus as a young man – when he was twenty-three years old. It's recorded in his Starfleet medical history. Laid him out for ten days."

"So you think that this particular virus originated with the captain?" Trip asked.

"I do. And not only that; based on these records, I am nearly certain that the captain is now immune to that original virus." He forestalled Trip's expression of relief. "I cannot say the same for this mutation, but it's possible – and I stress 'possible' – that he may have a strong natural defense to it."

"And, perhaps, hold the potential anti-virus," T'Pol suggested. "Or vaccine."

Phlox offered a small smile. "Quite."

The science officer began to rise to a sitting position.

"Whoa, hey, what do you think you're doing?" Trip held her by the shoulders to arrest her movement, a little concerned by how fragile she seemed beneath his hands.

"If I can examine the data, I may be able to assist the doctor in his analysis," T'Pol said with an edge to her voice. "I have at least some experience in human virology." She glanced pointedly at Trip's hand, and he removed it and took a step back.

"That may be," Phlox responded, "but I would like to see you get a little bit more rest first."

"We may not have time for that," T'Pol stressed. She flung off the covers and swung her legs around to dangle them off the bed. The baggy hospital smock she wore hung off her hunched shoulders. Trip reached out again to restrain her; she pushed him with Vulcan force. He staggered backwards.

"_Commanders_," Phlox barked in the hard voice he rarely used. Both officers stopped. "T'Pol, you are not cleared for duty, and I _will_ sedate you if necessary. Commander Tucker, I will release T'Pol from Sickbay the instant _I_ decide she is fit. In the meantime, Commander, you may review the data on a padd from this bed, if you wish." He turned to Trip. "And you, Commander, I would assume you have your hands full with the mystery of why this virus was even created in the first place. The moment I have any information that might help you, I will let you know."

Trip bit back a retort because this was Phlox's domain and, in the end, the doctor was right. He turned apologetic eyes toward T'Pol, who, despite her best efforts, still looked ready to keel over. "Sorry, T'Pol, I didn't mean to man-handle you." He took a deep breath, then plunged in. "One question, though. We're heading back to the origin point of that pod. Do you – will we find the captain there?"

T'Pol held his gaze. "I do not know. It's been some time since the captain and I were together. I would be merely speculating." Trip's shoulders slumped. She'd been the last person to see the captain, and she couldn't even say whether he was still alive.

"Do you even – no, never mind," Trip caught himself. "You did what you had to do. Egawa would be dead right now if you hadn't gotten him out of there. Look, when you get the go-ahead from the Doc here, I'd like for you to debrief with Hoshi and Malcolm. We've got some leads from this Shevon Oreevi woman – she's a member of Geren Liaison's staff who's, well, she's kind of working with us now – and you might be able to fill in the rest of the blanks. When you're up to it, though." He hoped that hadn't sounded too desperate. If he could have, he would have overruled Phlox's medical judgment and hit her with every single fact and theory they had. He needed her intellect, that formidable Vulcan logic that would find the connections that he was missing.

"Commander – Trip," she called as he turned to duck between the curtains. "I felt it was my duty to get Mr. Egawa back to _Enterprise_ if it was at all possible. It was logical to do so, even if it meant leaving the captain behind."

Nodding slowly, Trip said, "You did the right thing, T'Pol. Let me know when you're up to that debrief. I'll send Hoshi down to fill you in on everything we know so far. I'm not giving up hope yet." The curtains swished back into place behind him as he left.

* * *

The connection came to T'Pol as she lay staring at the white curtain that served as a wall between her bed and the rest of Sickbay. Phlox's notes were meticulous and detailed, and at first glance they had little relation to the kidnapping or the information gleaned from the Carah Shon interviews.

_Why would anyone target a ship with two humans and one Vulcan?_

_What possible purpose could a human-derived, mutated virus serve?_

_And what did the Vya, those children in stasis, have to do with either one?_

Suspended between sleep and wakefulness, her mind drifted to that last night on The World. They had watched a dance performance – or more accurately, Archer had watched the performance, and Darala had watched him. Then, after the concert, Darala had drawn the captain into a provocative, sensual dance of her own. And the captain had seemed almost entranced.

That dance ritual was something she had not been able to reconcile with a diplomatic first contact. It had been a seemingly out of place, far too intimate dance which had left Archer off-balance even the next day as they had boarded the shuttle bound for _Enterprise_. And, later, in captivity, the ongoing effects of the hormone-enhancing drugs pumped into Archer's system intravenously had yielded a sexually-charged restlessness as he had slept (which she had pretended not to notice to avoid embarrassing him unnecessarily) and an uncharacteristic aggression when he had been awake.

Her Vulcan physiology had rendered the virus only mildly effective, but Egawa had taken the full brunt of it. Had he been the human test tube for cultivating this particular strain of the pathogen?

It would be a logical next step to test the virus on a non-human host, to determine its effects on other species.

It was only mildly effective against Vulcans, perhaps, but what about Carah Shon L'os? One would need a "guinea pig" to test The People's vulnerability. A willing participant, or, failing that, an unwilling one. A kidnapped one. The Vya.

A mutagenic virus derived from humans, still deadly to humans, but genetically engineered to be deadly to The People, as well. T'Pol couldn't think of a more devastating biological weapon than that.

Because without the cooperation of the other, neither humans nor The People would ever develop an anti-virus.

She peeked around the curtain into the main room. The light in Phlox's alcove office was off. The doctor must be on a dinner break. She didn't have much time, then. She knew enough about the bio bed to disengage the monitor (useful for when a patient wanted to use the bathroom without setting off an alarm) before striding across Sickbay to the clothing locker. The alien-provided shirt and trousers she had been wearing when rescued had been analyzed down to its fibers and then destroyed. Her own thermal clothing was in her quarters. She searched through the piles of folded jumpsuits until she found one that was close to her size, and slipped it on.

Ensign Stackhouse was manning the Science Station when T'Pol strode onto the Bridge moments later wearing a slightly baggy, Starfleet regulation uniform with red piping. Reed stood up in surprise. "Commander," he said.

Trip whirled around in the command chair. "What the hell are you doing out of Sickbay? Phlox hasn't cleared you for duty."

"I believe I – "

"Get back to Sickbay. _Now_. That's an order, Commander." Trip looked angry enough to carry her down several decks himself.

T'Pol raised one eyebrow calmly. "Phlox has cleared me for _light_ duty," she emphasized, "which is why I was reviewing the data you've accumulated so far. And since I out rank you as First Officer under Captain Archer - who is, at this moment, only Missing In Action - I am not subject to your orders." Trip gaped at her with his mouth open. "In any event, Commander, I am not here to take over as Acting Captain. You are doing an exemplary job in that capacity so far. However, I do wish to share information with you, and I need to show it to you in person. It is more logical for me to come to you, rather than ask you to leave the Bridge."

Nobody moved for a moment. T'Pol was at once pulling rank _and_ disobeying a direct order – neither of which was comprehensible under any circumstances. Oddly enough, Stackhouse was the first to react. "Sir," she said, vacating T'Pol's customary seat, "your station."

"Your relief," T'Pol responded, sitting. With her customary economy of words, she outlined her theory: that the virus was a biological weapon which could be used against either humans or The People. Neither species could develop a cure or vaccine independently of the other, since it contained genetic markers of both species. Released on Earth or on The World, it would cause an unstoppable pandemic that could wipe out either species.

"Travis, how long before we reach the black box coordinates?"

"Approximately ten hours at our current speed, warp four point two."

"Push it a little harder, Travis." Trip glanced at Reed. "Help me get Miss Insubordination back to Sickbay, will you, Malcolm? And Hoshi, I need to talk to Dr. Fenree on The World, asap. She's the Head Forensic Investigator. Geren Liaison will know how to contact her." Stackhouse resumed her station.

Both Reed and Trip knew enough not to touch T'Pol, but they couldn't help but flank her protectively as they entered the turbolift.

Twenty minutes later, Hoshi commed Sickbay. "_Bridge to Commander Tucker_."

"Go ahead, Hoshi. Did you reach Dr. Fenree?" Across the room, Phlox activated the visual monitor in anticipation of the communication from The World.

"_Sir_," said Hoshi slowly, "_I've talked to everyone I can reach. There's no such person as Ryamon Fenree in the Forensic Investigation Unit._"

"That's not possible, Hoshi. Malcolm and I talked to her ourselves. She's the one who interrogated Arat Atanoma."

"_I spoke to the Head Forensic Investigator, and he's definitely not the person you dealt with. There's nobody by that name anywhere on their official rolls. And, sir_?"

Trip closed his eyes. He definitely didn't want to hear what came next. "Go ahead."

"_Geren Liaison has disappeared_."


	12. Move or Die

**Chapter Twelve - Move or Die**

"Sir," Hoshi said as she struggled to keep up with Trip's long stride down the corridor toward the Conference Room, "you might want to go easy on her. She's a little space-sick."

Trip turned to her with alarm, his pace slowing just a fraction. "She needs to be in Sickbay?" His mind began to work out a way to rig a quarantine section in this part of the ship.

"No, it's not the virus. But she's never been in space before, and the atmosphere and gravity on the ship," Hoshi twirled a finger in the air to illustrate, "is taking a bit of getting used to. Plus she's eating alien food and I don't think she's slept since she got here – she's holding up, but just barely."

"Gotcha. Okay, I promise I'll be gentle." Trip pressed the door open button and stepped inside the Conference Room. Immediately, he began to sweat. The complaint died on his lips when he remembered how stiflingly hot The World was during the day, and he took in the sight of Shevon Oreevi hunched miserably at the table, buried in Reed's oversized cold-weather away mission parka. Next to her gloved hand sat a carafe of steaming hot tea. If Hoshi or Malcolm had taken the liberty to crank up the heat in the room to make their guest more comfortable, it was a liberty he was willing to overlook.

Reed grimaced at him over the top of Shevon's head. "We think we've narrowed down the possibilities to these three planetoids, based on T'Pol description. We'll know a bit more when we get closer. They're the only ones with even a little bit of breathable atmosphere."

"Good. Ms Oreevi," Trip said gently, "do you have any idea who this Fenree person could have been?"

Shevon gave an approximation of a negative head shake. "I had never seen her before. My duties were not such that I would ever have been involved in a . . . criminal investigation."

Trip slid into the chair beside her. "Okay. No one's blaming you for any of this. I want you to know that. And I know it seems like we've gone over the same things a million times. But, there may be something basic, something minor, that can help us out here. Arat Atanoma had said that the kidnappers were mercenaries – does that square with what you know about The Explorers?"

Shevon considered. "I suppose that every race has anomalies. The Explorers have a certain mercenary quality to them, yes. Having no home world, they depend on their ability to trade with other species. It is not so difficult to imagine a faction exploiting that in this way."

"Assuming that Dr. Fenree, whoever she may have been, was part of this plot," Reed observed, "we have to also assume that any information she gave us was compromised."

"Well, there was only so much she could control," Hoshi said, "because we have our own empirical data. She couldn't hide the fact that there was a decoy ship, or that the Vya were stolen."

Reed stiffened. "But she could use the fact of Arat Atanoma's confession to her own benefit." He looked at Trip. "Atanoma had to have been telling the truth about what he knew – he had no reason to lie on his deathbed." Even Earth-based jurisprudence recognized the general reliability of a deathbed confession.

"One wouldn't," Shevon put in quietly.

"Right. And once that confession was out there, Fenree had no choice but to hunt down all of the conspirators – and eliminate them before anyone could give the rest up." Reed held up the padd containing the accumulated confessions. "And this so-called investigation gave her and Geren Liaison the perfect excuse to do that. If we disregard the statements provided to us by Fenree, the ones we weren't personally present for, then we still have Atanoma's. And that's the one she couldn't manipulate because Ms Oreevi, Trip, and I were all there, listening in real time."

"And making our own translation," Shevon added.

Trip paced the length of the small room. "So Atanoma joined the conspiracy to get back at Darala for the insult of the – what was it called?"

"The _Sayn to yish-vaha_."

"Okay. He sees that; he snaps. He provides the bio-badges, which allows The Explorers to have access to everything they need to create a human-based pathogen."

"The plot had to have begun prior to that, though," Reed pointed out. "There were too many people involved, too many moving pieces to get the thing up and running between the time Atanoma decides he's been kicked to the curb by Darala and the time that the shuttle takes off. They had to have been working on getting the bio-data all along, since they had no reason to expect Atanoma would join them."

Shevon said, "Fenree must have had access to the main database, where all alien profiles are kept. Geren Liaison certainly would have. His position would have given him unlimited access to any records, perhaps even Darala's."

Trip felt all the blood drain from his head. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Oh, no. Malcolm. You know how all this time we've been running under the assumption that Darala's ritual dance with the captain was some sort of coded kiss-off of Atanoma? And that she did it because she's Darala, she's The One – because she could?" The lieutenant nodded. "What if she did it, not because she _could_, but because she couldn't help herself? What if they were conducting the same type of experiment on her as they were on the captain?"

"Arat made a late night visit to the captain's suite and took the bio-badge to Darala's chambers," Reed recalled. "So we assumed that she'd put him up to it, or was benefitting somehow from it. Maybe he was gathering last minute data from both of them – data which The Explorers were using to create the bioweapon."

The chirp of the wall comm startled them all. "Bridge to Commander Tucker."

"Go ahead, Travis."

"We're coming up on those coordinates, sir. I'm guessing the one we're looking for is the second planetoid in."

"And that's because . . .?"

Travis' tone was dry. "Because that's the one with the two ships in orbit. From our sensor readings, they're getting ready to fire on something."

Trip gestured to Reed. "Hang back a bit, Travis – I don't want to get in the middle of anybody's war. I'll be right there."

"Aye, sir," Travis replied, but Trip and Reed were already out the door.

* * *

The emergency lights glowed a dim amber as Archer shuddered on the cold floor. His limbs twitched and spasmed as he attempted to gain control over his convulsing muscles. Lab Tech crawled over and shoved a folded cloth into his mouth, saving him from biting his tongue yet again. Strong clawed fingers held his shoulders down as his body slowly recovered from the massive jolt of electricity from Boss Flunky. Lab Tech's clicks gradually resolved into words. _We do not have much time_, said the translator box. _We have been betrayed_.

Archer concentrated on slowing down his breathing. He reached up and removed the gag, balling it up in his fist. He felt like he'd just been wrapped in barbed wire. With a groan, he rolled to his side and managed to get up to his hands and knees on the first try. The movement, careful as it was, shot an arrow through his head, and he retched up air and stomach acid. It took a moment before he was able to put words together. "What, what do you mean, betrayed?"

Lab Tech gestured to the body of Boss Flunky – definitely dead this time, as the tongs still protruded from its neck – front and back. _They never intended to let us leave. They have cut off the ventilation already._

"Who's 'they'?" Archer asked as Lab Tech yanked him one-handedly to his feet.

The alien didn't seem inclined to answer him. It grabbed the electric prod and ignored Archer's violent, reflexive recoil. Pressing a hidden switch, it tapped the manacles holding Archer's wrists. They fell away in two pieces. _We do not have much time_, it repeated.

The heavy sliding door, stuck slightly open, would not respond to the control. Lab Tech squeezed through a space little more than a third of a meter wide. With its characteristic brevity, it continued, _Move or die_.

Rubbing his abraded wrists, Archer stepped through the doorway and into the darkened corridor. Lab Tech didn't look back to see whether the human was following, and the captain had to jog a few steps to catch up with the alien. Already, he could see the mist forming with every exhale; it appeared that the ventilation, the lights, and the heat had all been disengaged. He wondered, for approximately the hundredth time, whether the facility was land-based. If they were in space, it would be getting pretty damned cold pretty damned quick.

Archer's steps slowed as he realized that there was no reason to trust this alien. It had already shown itself to be a manipulative liar, willing to say anything, do anything, to get the results it wanted. It had invaded his mind and masqueraded as T'Pol in order to get him to cooperate. It had clearly lied to its patrons, telling them that Archer had perished. And above all was the knowledge that it was nothing more than a mercenary paid to develop a biological weapon. What had it said? _What does one cycle matter to the millions they will murder?_ It was madness to believe that this creature had any interest in helping its lab rat escape.

And yet, Lab Tech had not killed him, despite every opportunity to do so.

He came to a full stop as Lab Tech fought with the unresponsive door control before wedging its fingertips into the tiny seam, trying to pull the doors apart. Archer looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon, but the corridor was bare and empty. The electric prod was back in the room they had just left, fifty meters away. He briefly considered running back to get it. If he could figure out how it worked, he could surely incapacitate Lab Tech.

_And then what_? he reasoned. If anything, Lab Tech was acting out of sheer self-preservation. Its whole aspect had changed to one of fear and desperation, as if it expected something worse than the shutting off of the environmental systems. Would the patrons be so ruthless as to destroy the facility with the scientists still inside, now that they were in possession of the virus they had commissioned?

He shivered, shirtless, feeling the cold metal floor beneath his bare feet. The temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees in a matter of minutes. He had no way out except to follow the alien. He stepped up to the stubborn door and added his strength to pry the door open a centimeter at a time.

* * *

"Report, Travis," Trip barked as soon as the turbolift doors opened onto the Bridge. The forward view screen was filled with the image of two ships Trip didn't immediately recognize. They looked familiar, though. One was about half the size of _Enterprise_, with very obvious weaponry, including what Trip was pretty sure were torpedo launchers. It looked rather like a matte black clamshell – closed up, with no apparent vulnerable points, its three short, rectangular nacelles tucked up underneath it. The other was only about two-thirds the size of its companion, sleek and maneuverable.

"I'm pretty sure we're still outside their sensor range," Travis replied, turning slightly in his chair. "They haven't attempted to hail us yet."

"Good job. What are they up to?" Trip eased himself into the command chair. He glanced over at Science, unsurprised to see T'Pol at her console. Although she had not relieved him of command, her interpretation of "light duty" apparently differed significantly from his.

"Well, it looks like the big one on the left is a heavy cruiser, well armed – lots of firepower. The little one has some weaponry, but it looks like it's more of a passenger transport. We haven't scanned too closely yet, so we don't know what kind of complement they're carrying. We didn't want to set off any alarms if they haven't figured out we're here yet."

Reed said quietly, staring at his monitor. "Commander, we don't need a scan. I can tell you right now what they are." He looked up. "They're part of Darala's fleet."

"What?!" Trip stood up and strode to the Tactical station. Now he understood why they looked familiar, although he would sooner have recognized the inside of the warp reactor than the outside of the ship. "What in the – hail them."

Before the words were fully formed, the heavy cruiser on screen let loose a volley of what appeared to be torpedoes toward the planetoid's surface. Trip snapped his mouth shut. Lieutenant Reed scrambled to take readings. "We need to get closer, Ensign."

After a nod from Trip, Mayweather eased Enterprise further into the system.

"I would suggest Tactical Alert," T'Pol murmured, and a second later, the klaxon sounded.

On screen, three torpedoes hit the surface, one right after the other. It was impossible to tell from this distance, but Trip was sure they had all been aimed at the same target. The cruiser remained in geosynchronous orbit, and fired twice more.

"What the hell are they shooting at?" Trip demanded.

"Sir," Mayweather commented quietly, "that planetoid matches the original coordinates of the escape pod. I'd guess that that's where Jamey and Commander T'Pol were being held. And if the captain's still alive. . . " He broke off as the cruiser spat out another torpedo.

That was all Trip needed to hear. "Take us in." To Hoshi, now seated at Communications, he directed, "Hail them."

She bent her head to the task, scrolling through all of the frequencies in her usual order. "This is the Earth Starship, _Enterprise_. We request that you cease fire. . . "

Trip walked over to T'Pol. "Anything down there? Any structures or cities? Can we tell what they're trying so hard to demolish?"

The Vulcan leaned over her viewer. "At this altitude, it would be impossible to see anything smaller than, say, the Great Wall of China. We'd need to be in a much lower orbit."

"Can we scan for his biosigns?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow and began to answer, then checked herself. "It is unlikely that our equipment is sensitive enough," she replied gently.

"_Try_," Trip pleaded quietly. She turned back to her viewer.

Hoshi looked up in frustration. "Neither ship is responding. I've gone through the whole spectrum."

"Well, if they're ignoring us, I'd take that as a sign that they are definitely up to no good." Trip sat back down. "Since they know we're here anyway, let's see if we can get them to back off."

_Enterprise_ gracefully maneuvered herself into a lower orbit than the heavy cruiser. As expected, the cruiser responded by firing two torpedoes at the starship. "Hold your fire, Malcolm," Trip directed. "Let's see what they'll do."

They didn't have to wait long. _Enterprise's_ polarized hull absorbed a blast of energy as the second, smaller ship joined the conversation. Travis had his hands full as he tried to evade both ships, while at the same time maintaining his orbital position. Too low, and the starship would not be able to recover and break orbit. Too high, and Darala's ships would be able to fire at the surface unencumbered.

Trip nodded at Hoshi. "This is Commander Tucker. We may have a man down there on that piece of rock you're pulverizing. We're asking that you stop firing long enough to let us check."

The ship rocked from more shots.

"Hull plating's down by nine percent," Reed reported. "And . . . the big ship's arming torpedoes. Locking on us, sir." Reed's voice had taken on the matter-of-fact quality he tended to use in battle. To Trip, that tone meant that they were about to get their asses kicked.

"Give them a love tap, Malcolm. A firm one." Reed fired at the larger ship. It tumbled a little, its balance altered. The smaller ship continued attacking. "One more time," Trip said.

Punched again, the larger ship spiraled a few times before recovering. Its bulk was not suited for maneuvering in such a low orbit. Reed targeted it again, getting off one more shot just as Travis steered hard to port to avoid a blast from the smaller ship.

"Open it up, Hoshi," Trip instructed, then raised his voice for the microphone. "Look. We're not interested in a pitched battle here. We just want to see if our crew member is on the surface. Quit firing at us, or we'll have no choice but to take you out." He grabbed hold of the nearest railing and tried to keep his feet as the ship rocked again. "Arm a photonic torpedo, Malcolm, and put that little guy in your sights."

"Sir, a torpedo would likely destroy it," Reed said, not at all argumentatively.

"Mm-hm." At Reed's nod, Trip addressed the ships again. "Check your sensors. We don't _want_ to blow you out of the sky, so – " There was a burst of static, as if the transmission were suddenly jammed, and then the smaller ship wheeled about and went to warp.

The heavy cruiser began a serious barrage against the starship that sent shockwaves rippling through it. Reed barely kept his seat as he fought to target the attacker. Alarms began sounding all over the Bridge, and damage reports flooded Hoshi's station. The two large ships shot out of orbit, circling each other in open space like two exhausted, punch-drunk fighters in the ninth round of a ten-round prize fight. There was hardly any time to think. Trip shouted over the din of sirens and sizzling consoles, trying to keep the vulnerable Engineering levels from becoming a target. The lights flickered ominously as the main systems were forced to draw power from other parts of the ship.

He issued orders by instinct, grateful for Reed's experience and Mayweather's skill. In the back of his mind, he worried about whatever the hell was down on that planetoid that made such an attractive target. And inside that worry was the little knot of certainty that the key to the mystery of what had happened to the captain lay in the ruins of whatever Darala's ships were trying so hard to obliterate.

The other ship rolled once, attempting to get into a better position. "Targeting its array," Reed said, stabbing at his console. A plume of fire appeared briefly and the expected return volley never came. "Their weapons are down, sir," Reed said, and his voice held a note of pure satisfaction. Trip took a moment to catch his breath. The other ship slowly rotated itself, and then – like its companion – abruptly went to warp.

Travis' hands hovered over the controls. "Pursuit, sir?"

Trip hesitated, wiping his upper lip with the cuff of his uniform. That worry still nagged at him. "Travis," he replied slowly, making his choice, "get us into as low an orbit as you can. T'Pol, let me know when you can see what the hell they were so determined to destroy down there. You don't send two ships with that much firepower unless you really have something to hide. Right?"

He caught T'Pol's glance. "Agreed," she said.

* * *

It was the bombardment that finally convinced Archer that the facility was located on a planet. The concussive force of the detonations felt too solid to be contained on a ship or even a space station. Man-made places in space depended too much on equalization – gravity and life support would fail momentarily, and then would be restored to equilibrium immediately, or else everyone on board would quickly die. Metal twisted, floors gave way, and there was an unmistakable transfer of energy whenever a ship was hit with a weapon.

But none of that happened now as the distant booms of what could only be bombs struck the solid rock of whatever planet, asteroid, or rock on which he was marooned. The deep thunder roared its way underground, setting off an ominous vibration, as if a sleeping giant were being roused against its will. Each pulse of bomb meeting rock reverberated like a physical blow in his chest.

Lab Tech stopped for a split second, listened, then redoubled its efforts with the door. It spared no explanations now; its frantic pushing was all Archer needed to know. The captain gritted his teeth and leaned in with all his strength, but days of hunger striking and lack of exercise left his muscles trembling and nearly ineffective.

"This isn't gonna budge," he panted. "The mechanism is only going to move if there's power. It's a fail-safe." He backed away, and squinted through the gloom to examine the perimeter of the door frame. Even the safety bulkheads on _Enterprise_, strong enough to protect the crew from the vacuum of space in the event of a hull breach, had manual overrides. Nobody in their right mind would design a catastrophe door without thinking about what they would do if they ever got caught on the wrong side of it. He skimmed his fingertips along the outline of the frame, pressing every indentation, fiddling with every imperfection in the metal around the door. Finally, about two and a half meters up, he found the tiny switch. It took only a slight pressure of his first two fingers before the pneumatic lock released.

Lab Tech surged through without a word, a being on a mission. Archer followed on wobbly legs, noticing worriedly that Lab Tech didn't even check to see if he was following. Clearly, Lab Tech had decided it would leave Archer behind if it had to. Within a few seconds, Archer realized why the alien was so desperate to get out. The underground booms had ceased, but a different, more sinister sound had begun. For the first time, Archer heard the groan of steel, the tortured sound of walls bending. And then the ground began to shake.

Chunks of concrete, shaken loose, began to rain down on them as they ran through the corridors. Archer had spent most of his adult life in San Francisco – he had participated in at least a hundred quake drills and rescue/evac scenarios during his time at Starfleet Headquarters. It was as much second nature to him to seek the nearest exit as the ground shook beneath his feet as it would be to run from a raging forest fire or a burst levee. Lab Tech seemed to know where it was going, so Archer covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow, trying to keep the fine, pulverized dust from choking him, as he dodged bits of crumbled ceiling and disintegrated wall. He noticed that Lab Tech had pulled up the hood of its haz mat suit. Its mesh mask was back in place, providing, he guessed, some protection from the dust.

The alien ducked into a doorway. Archer had the nagging suspicion that this was not exactly an exit. He paused for a second, looking left and right down the corridor, then, against his better judgment, followed Lab Tech. He was unfamiliar with the layout of the facility. Perhaps Lab Tech knew of an alternate way to get out of the maze-like laboratory before it collapsed around them.

Lab Tech wrenched open a large, steel-like vault. It was pitch black inside. Lab Tech gestured, once more unreadable and aloof behind the mask.

Archer moved forward and peered inside. The bottom of the vault was covered in ash. It was a furnace of some sort. He backed out, horrified, knowing instinctively that this was the terminus of the facility's lab rats once their usefulness was over.

Impatiently, Lab Tech activated the translator box in its pocket. _Reinforced steel. Vents to the outside, away from the building_, it said. _We have little time._

Archer's eyebrows nearly levitated off his forehead. "Seriously? _That's_ your plan?" He leaned inside and tried to determine just how far up Lab Tech intended for them to climb. He couldn't see daylight – not a good sign.

At that point, Lab Tech decided, apparently, that it was not worth risking its own life to stand around and argue with the reluctant human. It pushed Archer aside roughly and hauled itself over the meter high lip of the incinerator. There were small handholds built into the walls, probably for ease of access for cleaning, Archer supposed. He watched as the white-suited alien scrambled up the chimney and out of sight.

A violent shudder underneath the facility threw Archer to the floor, and the last of the emergency lights failed. That made his decision for him. Liar and accessory to murder it might be, but Lab Tech seemed to have a healthy desire for survival. The captain climbed into the furnace and began to struggle up the tiny space, his wide shoulders scraping the sides of the filthy column.

It became easier to breathe the higher he climbed, leaving the soot of whatever unfortunate beings had preceded him far below. He kept his eyes pinned to Lab Tech's retreating figure, compelling his mind to think of this as just another Jeffries tube in some space station somewhere. The quaking seemed to diminish, and he hoped that they would reach the end of their upward journey before the facility collapsed like a house of cards.


	13. Rescue or Recovery

**Chapter Thirteen - Rescue or Recovery**

At the top of the furnace chimney, Lab Tech paused. Sightless in the pitch black, Archer bumped into the alien's feet on the ladder. He could feel the whipping wind coming from just above Lab Tech's head, so he knew they had reached the exit Lab Tech had been looking for. But the alien didn't move.

"What is it?" he shouted over the screaming wind.

Lab Tech didn't reply right away. Archer heard a clang of metal against metal and suddenly understood. Of course. Any incinerator venting to the outside would necessarily have a cover of some sort – probably a massive fan assembly to pull the smoke and fumes out of the building, covered by a grate of some sort to prevent rain, dirt, or other debris from falling down the chimney. Without power, the fans would be immobile, but nothing the size of the two fugitives would be able to pass through.

They were still trapped.

He laid his head on his right fist, still gripping the hand-hold. He was too tired even to contemplate backing his way down the chimney, and what would be the point, anyway? _Might as well let go and just let gravity do its thing, _he thought. With all the ash down there, at least it'd be a soft landing if he were in any shape to notice when he got to the bottom. Another loud noise, this time an ominous moan of metal, brought him back to his senses. Not quite ready to give up yet, he raised his left hand to punch Lab Tech's leg. "_Move_," he yelled.

Lab Tech hoisted itself up onto the narrow platform. Archer scrambled up behind. He could see the outside dimly – shadows only, for there was no moon, and little starlight. The platform trembled beneath his feet as the building tilted in the throes of a large tremor.

He pushed past Lab Tech and grabbed the edge of a fan blade, easily a half a meter wide and three times as long. Rather than try to turn it in its housing, he pulled it toward himself, attempting to warp the blade sufficiently to create a space big enough to squeeze through. It bent only enough to give him hope, but no further.

Lab Tech joined his effort, but the two of them together made little progress. Now that they had stopped climbing, Archer could feel his body succumbing to the bitter cold.

And suddenly, the world rocked sickeningly as the floors beneath them crumbled and settled into their own dust and twisted pylons. Archer held on to the blades to avoid pitching backwards into the deep hole. Lab Tech clutched his arm, bracing both of them. Neither dared to move as the facility shuddered on its disintegrating foundation. It listed to the side, as if the ground had begun to swallow it whole.

Archer knew the only chance they had was to make it out onto the roof, before the ceiling collapsed. He braced both feet against the wall and tried to pull the blade toward himself. He thought he was making headway, felt the blade bend by scant degrees, and grimaced with satisfaction.

And then the roof fell in.

* * *

Trip tried not to disturb T'Pol as she carefully and methodically scanned, knowing that she would not appreciate wasting precious seconds to tell him that she had not found anything yet. He shifted once again in his seat. The entire Bridge crew seemed to be holding its breath. Travis's hands flew across his console as he tried to compensate for the sudden and strong gusts of wind buffeting the ship. _Enterprise_ was gliding just below the atmospheric line, as close as she could get so that her sensors could pick up something, anything, on the empty surface of the planetoid. Easy for an airplane, next to impossible for a starship. To his left, Hoshi sat, eyes closed, hand pressed to her aural receiver, listening. Trip knew that her hearing was sensitive enough to pick up the faintest vibration. What he was hoping for was a distress call.

"Commander, I'm reading significant seismic activity down there," Malcolm said, frowning.

Before Trip could answer, T'Pol straightened. "There," she said. Trip vaulted out of the command chair to join her at her console. She pointed to a grey-on-grey outline of a building, definitely an artificial structure, surrounded by a vast, barren plain. "That is where we were held."

"You're sure?" Trip asked quietly. He didn't doubt her data, but they could not afford to guess wrong.

"Yes," she replied, and he thought he heard an echo of a whisper in his mind: _Trust me._

Trip turned to Reed. "What's going on down there, Malcolm? Earthquakes, volcanic activity?"

"Definitely groundquakes," Reed replied, using the more neutral term. "Lots of natural faults down there, very unstable. I just don't understand why, with all the shooting those ships did, they couldn't hit that structure. It's not hidden, and it's plenty big enough. _I _could even pick it off from here." He put the image up on the view screen so everyone could see. "But look where those missiles landed." The impact sites were black smudges on the grayscale sensor readout. The closest two missiles had each struck more than ten kilometers from the structure. "By all rights, that building should be rubble." The readout registered another powerful seismic event, represented by a ripple of orange emanating from one of the blast sites toward the building.

"_Superman_," Travis murmured suddenly. He ducked his head as all eyes turned his way, then took a deep breath. Even crazy theories were welcomed on this Bridge. "You remember the first _Superman_ movie, the good one, with Reeve and Kidder? That evil genius guy, Lex Luthor, he fires a nuclear warhead into the San Andreas Fault to – "

"To cause a massive earthquake and send California plunging into the ocean," Trip finished. "Those sons of bitches weren't trying to destroy the facility, they were trying to destroy the planetoid _itself._ Malcolm, how long before that thing breaks apart completely?"

"I'm no seismologist, Commander, but I'd say, a couple hours, tops."

"T'Pol, get me coordinates for the safest, closest landing spot to that building. Hoshi, I need a translation of that facility layout map. Malcolm, put together an extraction team, take some MACOs – be ready to move out in twenty minutes. Stackhouse – where's Stackhouse?" The blonde appeared from the auxiliary station at the back of the Bridge. "Ensign, I want you to start scanning the area for heat. Our readouts say it's about two degrees Centigrade down on the surface. You're looking for anything that reads in the vicinity of thirty-seven degrees. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Stackhouse replied briskly. She took Reed's station, transferred aux, and got to work.

"And Travis," Trip finished, sliding back into the command chair but itching to do more, "let's you and I try not to crash this thing, okay?"

* * *

The hardest thing about being captain, Trip believed, was making yourself delegate to someone else a mission you desperately wanted to command yourself. He watched as Reed, one Ensign, and four MACOs checked their EV suits one last time before boarding Shuttlepod Two. It took every ounce of discipline, what little he'd developed over the seven years aboard _Enterprise_, not to tap Ensign Pierce on the shoulder and replace him at the shuttle controls. He folded his arms and let Malcolm direct the pre-flight check. Having taken a good look at the weather pattern over the planetoid, he knew this might be the last time Malcolm would be able to put a full sentence together for a while.

Reed quickly checked the weapons before handing them out, and nodded as each of the members of the away team boarded the pod. He caught Trip's look and hesitated, waiting for last-minute instructions.

Trip didn't disappoint. "I want you to stay in constant contact, Malcolm."

"Once we get low enough into the atmosphere, we'll keep the comm. channel open," Reed agreed.

"Oh, and tell Pierce not to settle too long on the surface. The ground's so unstable, it might crack underneath the weight of the pod. I don't want you all falling into a crevasse."

Reed grimaced. "That's . . . not an experience I'd wish to repeat, no." He paused. "Anything else, Commander?"

"Just . . . good luck, Lieutenant."

It would be several minutes before the shuttle entered the atmosphere, enough time to stop by Sickbay and check on Egawa. Phlox's domain was curiously silent, with none of the usual chittering and chattering of the exotic creatures housed there. "Doc?" Trip called quietly.

Phlox appeared from behind a sterile curtain. "Ah, Commander," he greeted. "Has the away team left?"

"They're preparing for takeoff now," Trip said. "How's Jamey doing?"

The doctor twitched his shoulders. "He's stable, for the moment, but I'm concerned that his condition doesn't seem to be improving significantly. Not at the rate I'd like to see, anyway." Trip glanced toward the curtained area. "I don't think it's anything to worry about; we've never seen this virus before, after all, and this may be its usual course."

"Is he conscious?"

"He has brief moments of wakefulness." Phlox shrugged. "Oddly enough, each time he surfaces, he asks about T'Pol. He doesn't seem to be willing to take my word for it that she is safe and sound."

"Not so strange," Trip mused. "I think I'll ask T'Pol to come down here. Maybe seeing her in the flesh will help."

"Commander T'Pol needs to get some more rest herself, but I doubt ordering her to do so would do any good, at least not until the rescue mission is over."

Trip smirked. "You're right about that. Which is why a visit to Sickbay to reassure Jamey that she is doing fine is so much more . . . logical."

Phlox laughed and shook his head. "Sometimes I still underestimate the deviousness of humans."

"That's what we count on, Doc." He ambled toward the door before stopping briefly. "Oh, and Doc? Do me a favour and fire up the Decon chamber. I'm hoping that we'll have a reason to put it to use real soon."

Reed was checking in for the first time when Trip stepped back onto the Bridge. Hoshi put the communication on the speaker.

"_-And tell Commander Tucker that a little warning about the weather would have been nice,_" the lieutenant was complaining peevishly. They could hear, in the background, the rattling of equipment as the sturdy shuttlepod bounced and rolled through the turbulent wind and sleet on its way to the planetoid's surface. Reed was notoriously prone to bouts of airsickness, but the pod was equipped with an ample supply of sick bags.

"Well, I figured knowing about it in advance wasn't gonna help you anyway, Malcolm," Trip drawled, raising his voice for the microphone.

"_Coming in to the coordinates_," came Pierce's voice. "_Reducing speed_."

"Do you have visual?" T'Pol inquired, tasked with the responsibility of finding a suitable place for the pod to set down.

"_That's a negative, Commander. Can't see anything at all. This wind's whipping up rain and snow and dirt all together. It's a mess._"

"I'll guide you on instruments, then," T'Pol replied calmly. "Follow my instructions carefully." She began to count off the pod's altitude and heading, giving directions to a landing spot she had identified which was both within a few minutes' walking distance of the facility and substantially away from any noticeable cracks in the surface. All that could change in a heartbeat, though, as the quakes grew stronger and more frequent. She glanced up at Trip. "They're landing now."

"Talk to me, Malcolm," Trip said, hating this blind feeling.

"_Pierce is going to hover at three meters, once we disembark. I'm reading the structure at five hundred meters. Charming place, this. No moon – no light at all_."

"Stackhouse, how's that scan coming?"

The ensign finished tapping the information into the console, sending it to T'Pol and Reed simultaneously. "I have two readings – one is closer to thirty-four degrees, the other is significantly warmer, core temp is forty-one degrees."

One too hot, the other too cool. Burning fever or hypothermia. Trip didn't pause to consider which one was preferable. For a human, either meant that death was near. "Hurry, Malcolm," he said urgently, pitching his voice low enough that only the Bridge crew could hear.

"_Sir, I have visual – whoa_!" There were muffled noises, the ominous, wordless kind a person makes when his in-suit microphone comes loose and ricochets around inside his helmet, along with an unmistakable groan of pain. Other voices chimed in, and they gave no measure of relief: "_Hang on_!" "_I need another light over here_!" And then, Reed's calm voice, "_On three, just pull straight back. Watch that leg_."

Trip found himself standing two feet in front of the command chair, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. He knew Reed would report as soon as the situation stabilized, and he didn't need the distraction of trying to give a play-by-play. The next voice he heard was that of Sergeant McKenzie, the MACO commander, "_Freeman, take Collings back to the pod. And for heaven's sake, watch your step_."

"_Sir_," Reed reported, addressing _Enterprise_, "_we have one casualty. The ground just gave out from underneath us like thin ice. Looks like Collings may have broken his leg._"

Trip chewed his lip. No way they could use the transporter with the amount of interference down there.

"Malcolm, if you have to evac Collings, tell me now. It'll take us a few minutes to prep Shuttlepod One and get it on its way."

"_No need_," Reed replied, shouting above the howl of the wind, which was audible even through the EV suit's helmet, "_we're continuing on_." There were a few moments of relative silence, then a quiet, "_Oh, damn_."

"Report, Lieutenant."

"_Sir_," Reed answered slowly, "_we've got a visual on the facility. It's pretty much a big pile of rocks_."

* * *

Reed watched the building tremble and settle, a three or four story structure now reduced to one and a half. Intellectually, he knew that no one underneath all that wreckage could survive for long, but reminded himself that earthquake survivors were sometimes found days after the catastrophe. He set his jaw and began to run.

Easily keeping pace with him, MacKenzie snapped her night vision visor down. "Heat signatures at seventy-five meters. Closer to the top than the bottom."

"Movement?" Reed inquired.

"None."

Over his shoulder he reminded his team, now consisting only of Sergeant McKenzie and Private Evan Vanderbilt, to keep a sharp lookout for snipers. As they got closer to the structure, he began to worry less about hidden shooters, and more about climbing the giant pile of broken masonry and twisted struts that used to be a building. The rain was rapidly turning to sleet, more frozen than liquid, and that would make the stones slippery and treacherous.

He skidded to a halt at the base of the ruined wall. A corner of it had still survived, remaining more or less perpendicular to the ground. McKenzie stepped up beside him. "Easier climb, straight up," she observed in her laconic MACO-speak. Reed considered, then nodded; mountaineering wasn't his favorite activity, but it would be more efficient than scrambling over the jagged debris. McKenzie took a few paces back, then unclasped the pneumatic gun from her utility belt and handed it to Private Vanderbilt. "Better shot," she grunted to Reed.

"Enterprise_ to Reed, report_."

"Commander, we've we think we've located two bio-signs. It's going to take some climbing to get there, though."

"_Lieutenant_," that was T'Pol, "_the planetoid's stability is diminishing rapidly. Our best estimate is that you have approximately twenty-two minutes before it begins to disintegrate._"

Reed and McKenzie exchanged grim looks. "Understood." He watched as Vanderbilt took careful aim, then fired the heavy pistol, sending a hooked cable arcing twenty meters up into the air. It disappeared in the darkness, but the cable tautened, indicating that it had found a stable beam to wrap itself around. The MACOs made short work of attaching themselves to the cable with the heavy climbing loops that were part of the EVA suits. Reed quickly followed their lead, inserting himself between Vanderbilt and McKenzie.

Once he got the rhythm, it was not a particularly difficult climb, if one ignored the pellets of ice bouncing off of the helmet's faceplate, and the occasional slide of heavy mag-boots across the ice-slick stones. He couldn't see a damned thing, could only follow the murky shadow of Vanderbilt, inching his way a few feet above him. Neither of the two MACOs were inclined to chatter; the only sound he heard was their slightly heavy breathing due to exertion.

They covered the distance quickly, almost falling onto the flat but no longer completely level surface of what used to be the structure's roof. Reed snapped on his exterior helmet light and directed it around the area, letting his eyes adjust to the beam. Vanderbilt did the same, sweeping slowly from left to right.

Reed almost missed it. As it was, it took his brain a few seconds to catch up to his eye. He rubbed the accumulated moisture off of the faceplate with his glove and looked again. There – against the pale stone slab of the roof rested an object, only slightly less pale, curved and still.

It was a human hand.

Reed awkwardly jogged over, kicking up icy puddles, followed by the MACOs. In the crush, he could see that there had once been a ventilation chimney, a cube perhaps two meters on each side, perched on top of the roof. There had been a doorway here as well, a tiny opening, now defined by a wreck of a metal fan. The captain's body lay wedged between the frame of the doorway and the torqued blade of the massive fan, as if he'd been trying to escape by squeezing between the blade and the frame when the roof had collapsed. He hadn't made it. He was facedown, his arm extended and exposed up to the mid-forearm to the vicious needles of sleet.

The lieutenant nearly laughed with relief as Archer lifted his head slowly and acknowledged his rescuer with cloudy, unfocused eyes.

"Sergeant," Reed called urgently, and within seconds the three of them were jostling the ventilator fan, trying to loosen it from where it was bolted to the stone doorjamb, their fingers made clumsy by the heavy EV gloves. It wouldn't budge, but the chunks of the concrete-like slab which had once been the roof of the fan housing were easier to move. In the end, they dug their way in from the top, opening the chimney up like a newly discovered sarcophagus.

Archer wasn't alone. Lodged against the wall was another being, not human, arms and legs limp and unmoving like an abandoned toy. Its eyes were closed; Reed could not tell if it was alive or not.

In the small space, Reed assessed the captain's condition. In all of their preparation, they had not considered the possibility of finding the man half-naked and barefoot. The temperature was dipping below freezing now, and they had neither a spare EVA suit nor the time to get him into one even if they could retrieve one from the shuttlepod. There was no way he would be able to rappel back down to the ground on his own power – let alone dodge the multiplying cracks now tearing the planetoid apart.

"Reed to _Enterprise_. Commander, we've located the captain. Any chance we could transport him out of here? He appears to be in rough shape."

There was a pause before Trip replied, "_I wouldn't recommend that, Malcolm. All that seismic activity is playing hell with the sensors as it is. It'd be like transporting a fly off a bucking bronco. Can you get him back to the pod_?"

"Honestly, Commander, I don't think so. He's not in any condition to walk a half a kilometer. I don't even know how badly he's hurt. And he's not exactly dressed for this weather."

"_Well, we'll have to bring the mountain to Mohammed, then, Malcolm._" Trip's voice dropped as he turned his head to direct T'Pol to contact the shuttlepod. Then he said, "_Pierce'll get as close to you as he can. You're running out of time. If I were more confident that the integrity of the matter stream would hold, I would use the transporter in a heartbeat. But the readings I'm getting are telling me you'd end up scattered from here to the surface._"

"Understood, Commander." Reed moved forward to raise the captain into a position to be carried. As he did so, the alien stirred and opened its eyes.

"Sir," McKenzie said, "what do we do with this guy?" She gestured toward the alien.

Reed nodded to McKenzie, "Bring it." She'd know what to do. They would sort it out later, in the relative safety and stability of the ship. Activating his external speaker, he angled his shoulder underneath Archer's arm, trying not to jostle him too much in case he had any internal injuries. The captain's legs buckled beneath him, so Reed half carried, half dragged him to the edge of the roof, trying to coax him along gently but firmly. Archer looked over the rim, then back at Malcolm. "Gonna . . . toss me . . . over?" he slurred.

"Tempting, sir, but no," Reed replied, as he caught sight of the shuttlepod heading in their direction. Freeman already had the hatch open and was dangling the rescue harness. The wind whipped it crazily from side to side; it would take some effort to get the injured man securely into the straps.

As the MACOs conveyed to the alien in no uncertain terms – mostly by aiming their high-powered rifles at it – that its two choices were either cooperate or die, Reed got to work securing the captain into the rescue harness. It was a difficult job. Archer fought him, twisting and turning out of the lieutenant's grasp, as if he were being attacked, not saved. Weak as he was, his innocuous blows nevertheless interfered with a fairly straightforward task. Reed knew from his survival training that Archer's confused struggling against rescue was a symptom of hypothermia, but he didn't have time to be gentle with his patient. The planetoid gave every sign of wanting to split apart at any moment; they needed to leave the surface _now_. He resisted the urge to thump the man into submission.

He finally succeeded in bundling the captain into the requisite straps and signaled Freeman to winch the harness up. He wrapped his legs around the captain's bare torso, and held on to the cable above his head as they both rose to the hatch of the shuttlepod. He noticed with alarm that the captain had not only stopped thrashing about, but had also stopped shivering and now seemed to be losing consciousness. He began to inventory the pod's first aid provisions in his head, trying to figure out what they had on board that could be used to raise the captain's body temperature. They had made some changes to the standard shuttlepod supplies and equipment since his and Trip's unfortunate adventure, but he wasn't sure there was anything they could do outside of Sickbay.

Freeman helped him hoist the limp body aboard as Pierce wrestled with the wind to keep the pod level. The corporal lowered the flexible ladder out the hatch for the MACOs to climb up.

Once inside the pod, Reed unstrapped the captain and laid him in the center of the compartment. Corporal Freeman was at his side instantly, having had the presence of mind to retrieve the three emergency blankets from the pod's storage bin. "Just wrap him up, don't rub his skin," Reed ordered, darting back to the storage closet to find some heat packets.

Collings was seated on the floor at the front of the shuttlepod, just behind the pilot chair. "What do you need me to do, Lieutenant?" he asked bravely, trying to rise despite the pressure splint on his injured leg.

Reed gestured to the hatch, where the alien was being dragged aboard by Vanderbilt, followed by McKenzie, who had somehow made the climb up the flailing ladder with her rifle trained on the alien the whole time. "Guard that," Reed replied. "Reed to _Enterprise_."

"_Go ahead, Malcolm_."

"We have the captain, but we need Phlox standing by. He's severely hypothermic and unresponsive. We'll need to get him to Sickbay immediately upon docking."

There was a pause, then Trip answered, "_Negative, Malcolm. He's got to go to Decon. We need to quarantine him until we're sure he's not carrying that virus_."

Reed reminded himself that neither Trip nor Phlox could see the captain's condition. He snapped on his scanner and began to take Archer's vital signs. "Sir," he said, "I'm sending vitals. His core temp is thirty-one degrees." He moved to the comm. center to transmit the data. McKenzie knelt beside the captain, removed her glove, and took a carotid pulse.

"_I'm just following doctor's orders, Malcolm. We'll warm him up in the chamber. Meantime, we don't know what they did to him down there, and we can't take any chances."_

"Well, we've got someone aboard who might shed some light on the situation. You might want to have both Hoshi and Ms Oreevi available for translation purposes. And more MACOs."

"_Understood,"_ Trip said.

Wrapped in the blankets, Archer began to shiver violently as his cold body began to react to the warm shuttlepod. He shook as if he were having a seizure. The alien, which had been strapped into a jump seat, stiffened suddenly, its attention drawn to the stricken man. At once, three pulse rifles and two phase pistols snapped up to fire-ready status, as five humans reacted in line with their training. Whatever the alien was, it was not stupid. It froze.

McKenzie was the first to lower her weapon. She reached down to replace the blankets thrown off by Archer's jerking spasms. Finally, she knelt back down and pulled the captain up onto her inclined lap. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders to keep both him and the blankets relatively still, she looked around and dared any one of her men to make a remark. They knew better.

"_Enterprise_, ETA to you, twenty minutes," Pierce commented.

"_Push it as hard as you can, Ensign_."

Pierce flicked a glance over his shoulder at the captain's shivering body. "Aye, Commander."


	14. Sickbay

**Chapter Fourteen - Sickbay**

The captain looked like hell. No, that was being overly generous. He looked like shit.

Actually, if Trip were being brutally honest, Captain Archer looked (as Charles Tucker, Sr. would have said) like he'd been "rode hard and put away wet" – and then frozen.

Curled up miserably on the Decon chamber bed, arms and legs drawn up tightly, Archer trembled with bouts of fine shivering, as his body's thermostat tried to normalize back to thirty-seven degrees. Trip imagined he could hear the captain's teeth chattering even through the inch-thick plexiglass of the Decon chamber. The commander had been silently celebrating the fact that _Enterprise_ had succeeded – against damned long odds – in rescuing her captain, until he'd gotten a good look at the wet, chilled form being carried off of the shuttlepod. Malcolm's expression had filled in the rest.

Now Phlox, gloved and gowned and masked, moved with an efficient speed that belied his girth as he wrapped the patient in heated blankets and strapped a bio-monitor to his right upper arm. Ensign Chin, the duty med-tech, deftly avoided the doctor's elbows as she gently, persistently, attempted to transfer the warm liquid from the squeeze bottle she held, past the captain's tightly clenched blue lips.

Trip couldn't read the scanner from where he stood in the corridor, but he could tell that the news was not good. He pressed the intercom button.

Phlox paused only long enough to open the comm., then went back to examining the puffy, angry-looking area of skin around the catheter attached to Archer's chest. "Yes, Commander?" he answered without glancing up.

"How is he?"

"It will be some time before I am able to give you a complete report, Commander." The doctor checked his scanner. "I am trying to stabilize him now."

"It's just that the rescue team – Malcolm and the MACOs – they're pretty anxious to know . . ." Actually, anxious didn't begin to cover it. The six team members, including Collings, who refused to report to Sickbay despite his injured leg, were still pacing in the equipment storage locker like expectant fathers, jazzed up on adrenaline and worry; until they got the all clear, they wouldn't even be able to stand down from their own personal alert status.

"You may tell them that I am trying to stabilize the captain's condition," Phlox replied shortly, stress and worry making him sound almost Vulcan.

"Understood, Doc," Trip sighed. "Keep me posted." He debated for a moment going back to the Brig to see whether the alien, whom Shevon Oreevi had identified as being of the species she knew as the "Explorers," had decided to cooperate with them after all. The first attempt at an interview, with Hoshi and Shevon making overtures in the Explorers' written language, had gone over like a lead balloon. The alien would not even look at the symbols, and had not made a sound since it had been brought aboard, rendering Hoshi's UT useless. T'Pol had confirmed that the beings who had stormed Darala's shuttle had been of the same species. That was enough to convince Trip to treat the nameless alien as a hostile. They would keep it locked in the Brig until the captain was well enough to tell them otherwise.

* * *

It was finally warm. It should have felt good, after being cold for so long, but the truth was, it hurt. The warmth stabbed at his skin like needles, random and merciless. He curled his hands inward, to put pressure on his fingertips to make the pain stop. Something brushed past his arm, and he heard whispers. He tried to hold himself very still, so that the alien would not notice that he was awake.

Cracking his eyelids open slightly, he saw a masked face only inches from his own. He felt a hand on his arm, and suddenly, he was fighting, lashing out at the unrelenting alien's demands. "_No, I've already given you what you wanted. No more_," he ground out, hoping somehow that it would just kill him out of frustration and get it over with. T'Pol and Egawa were dead; there was no reason to cooperate anymore.

"Captain, _Captain_, stop before you injure yourself." Now it was taking on the voice and aspect of Phlox. This was just too much. It was back inside his mind, trawling for memories and familiar faces to get him to do what it wanted. He pushed against the alien with all his strength, cocked his fist back to smash it in the face, and let fly.

The alien stepped back, startled. Archer found his hands restrained, pinned to the bed at his sides. None of his struggling gained him an inch of freedom. He heard a second voice, this one familiar also.

"Cap'n, it's me, Trip. Look at me." His anger and panic receded just enough for the blurry images to resolve into the face of his chief engineer, who was leaning over him. It was Trip's hands securing Archer's arms to the bio bed. He felt the cold shock of medication as a hypo-spray pressed against his neck. The quick, insistent beeping above his head slowed down perceptibly.

"Trip?" Even to his own ears, his voice was weak and raspy. He tried to explain, to warn them. "Trip, it's inside my head."

Trip stared at him for a long moment, and then blinked, a regular upper-and-lower-lids-meeting type of blink, and that was all Archer needed. He relaxed his body abruptly, closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath, filling his nose with the antiseptic, familiar, wonderful smell of _Enterprise_'s Sickbay.

"What's in your head?" Trip asked carefully.

Archer turned his face away, trying to swallow both the laughter and the sobs that were working their way to the surface. He was home.

"Sir?" Now Trip sounded worried.

Archer coughed. "T'Pol and Egawa. Tell me." He had to hear it in words. He'd be able to deal with it then, once it was spoken aloud.

"Egawa's still recovering, sir," Trip replied, "but T'Pol's right here."

The captain's eyes snapped open. That was not what he'd expected to hear. He turned back to see his First Officer step up – oddly enough, wearing a standard blue uniform with the red stripes of Operations. She placed her hands behind her back and leaned forward slightly. "It is agreeable to see you, Captain," she said, the very stiff and formal greeting betraying her profound relief.

"Blink," Archer said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Blink your eyes."

She squeezed her hazel eyes shut briefly, then opened them, looking perplexed when Archer managed a tiny smile, moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Is there something wrong?"

"I believe it has something to do with the alien's physiology," Phlox interjected, stepping forward holding a towel to his bruised cheek. "From my cursory examination of The Explorer, it appears that its eyelids move from side to side."

"What does _that_ have to do with the price of eggs?" Trip asked.

"I would venture to guess that the alien attempted to communicate with the captain the way Explorers typically communicate with The People of the World."

There was a pronounced pause, then Trip said, "Ah."

"How – how long have I been gone?" Archer asked, raising a hand to rub his eyes.

"You've missing for nine days. Malcolm and the MACOs brought you back aboard yesterday." Trip smiled, tilting his head. "'Malcolm and the MACOS,' sounds like a party band, doesn't it?" Archer would have chuckled if he'd had the energy, but T'Pol's face remained stony. Trip shot her a disgusted look and went on. "Phlox was able to isolate the virus pretty quickly – "

"What virus?"

"We think The Explorers were hired to develop a virus – "

"Who are The Explorers?"

"The ones like your little friend that we're keeping in the Brig."

Archer raised his eyebrows in query. "Lab Tech," T'Pol supplied.

"Hmm."

"That's what Shevon said that The People call that species: The Explorers," Trip added.

"Shevon?" Archer murmured.

Trip sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. It's probably best, Cap'n, if I start from the beginning. A lot's gone on in the past week and a half, and I bet you could fill in some of the blanks for us, too."

But the debriefing would have to wait, as that was the last thing Archer heard before he drifted into oblivion.

* * *

Archer pulled back the curtain gently, not wanting to wake the occupant of the tiny space. He need not have worried. Egawa already had a visitor. Commander T'Pol sat by the bed, reading her padd. Egawa turned his head on the pillow to acknowledge the captain. His face lit up with a wide, if tired, smile.

Phlox had warned Archer that Egawa was still quite weak from the alien experimentation and the resulting illness. Although the doctor had identified the pathogen, it was taking time to reverse engineer the precise genetic code. So far, his success had been limited to identifying general Carah Shon markers, with the cooperation of Shevon Oreevi and her generous blood samples. But there were aspects of the virus's makeup that still eluded him, maddeningly, and the Denobulan doctor could only approximate the code. And without an effective anti-virus, he could treat Egawa's symptoms, but could not, in a sense, turn the virus "off."

The security crewman appeared gaunt and fatigued, shockingly diminished from the intimidating presence that had shadowed and guided Archer and T'Pol for three days on The World. His eyes were sunken, the sclera a pale yellow, and his cheekbones were more prominent than ever. But even lying in a sickbed, there was a perceptible snapping to attention as the captain stepped inside the small curtained room. He nodded to T'Pol, noting that she'd finally changed back into her own clothing. She returned her gaze to the padd she was studying.

"Crewman," Archer said quietly. "How are you doing?"

"I'm feeling much better today, sir," Egawa answered. "I hope to be out of here in a few days."

"Glad to hear it." Archer slid a chair closer to the bed, the walk across Sickbay from his bed to this one having exhausted him. He lowered himself into the not-so-comfortable visitor's chair, plucking at the baggy hospital smock that Phlox had insisted he wear.

"And you, sir?" Egawa asked politely. "How are you?"

Archer considered for a moment. "Getting there, I think," he said. "Ready to break out of here, anyway." Egawa looked relieved.

"It is unlikely that Doctor Phlox will return either of you to duty any time soon," T'Pol observed quietly, not glancing up from her reading.

"You could order him to, as Second in Command," Archer told her, only half joking.

"I could," she allowed. "But I won't." Archer and Egawa traded amused looks over her bent head. "You both need your rest."

From across the room, they could hear the curtain around Archer's bed slide open, then Phlox's heavy sigh. "I don't remember authorizing you to get out of bed, Captain," he said loudly to the room in general, sounding annoyed.

"Busted," Egawa muttered with a slight smile. Archer just grimaced. He took a deep breath, preparing to drag himself out of the chair and back across the room before Phlox thought up a pretense to immobilize him with some nasty leech or slug or something. "Sir?" Egawa's query stopped him, mid-motion.

"What is it, Jamey?"

The crewman paused, as if regretting saying anything, then continued haltingly. "I just wanted to say to you, and to Commander T'Pol, that I'm sorry I couldn't bring you _both_ back to the ship. It was totally my fault, and I'm ready to take full responsibility for it. I completely understand if you feel like you have to demote me to second class, sir. I kinda deserve it."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Archer was stunned.

"I was supposed to protect you, and I failed. It was because of me that Commander T'Pol had to leave you behind, because I was sick. I did my best, sir, but I'm willing to take whatever demerits you think are warranted." The secuirity officer's eyes were level, steady, and completely serious.

Archer stood up slowly and put his left hand on Egawa's shoulder, wrapping his right around the ensign's wrist. Egawa held his gaze and did not flinch. Archer had a very clear memory of Egawa's actions on the shuttle, and he had reviewed T'Pol's very thorough account of their escape. He was amazed at the resilience and strength of this young man, and astonished that he had kept going as long as he had, considering how close to death he had been. In his devotion to duty, he had managed to dispatch one of T'Pol's guards, traverse the maze of conduits leading to the pod's launch pad, and devise a wholly ingenious signal for _Enterprise_ to pick up - and he was _apologizing_ and expecting a demotion? "Not in a million years would I take anything away from you for what you did for Commander T'Pol and me. Your job was to get your superior officer to safety, and you did that – admirably, and in one piece. And that allowed _Enterprise_ to come back for me. One more hour on that planetoid, and I'd be dead. I owe you my life, Jamey, and letting your official record reflect that is the very least I can do." He squeezed gently. "And to say thank you."

Phlox pulled back the curtain with a snap. "Captain, I must insist that you return to your bed immediately. You shouldn't be up and around yet."

"I just wanted to see how Jamey was doing . . ."

"Commander T'Pol is perfectly capable of keeping an eye on Crewman Egawa. She has already spent several hours at his bedside, so your presence there is not necessary." Phlox sounded like his vast store of patience was wearing thin. "Please, Captain, you're recovering from hypothermia _and_ surgery - you need your rest."

Archer gave a rather theatrical sigh and slinked back to his bio bed, the doctor trailing him like a sheepdog. He looked across the room toward Egawa's tiny space; T'Pol had left the curtain open, perhaps so the captain would not feel so isolated and alone. He heard T'Pol quietly admonish Egawa to try to get some sleep, and saw her lift her eyes toward him to send the suggestion his way as well. Standing next to the bed, he absently rubbed the raised welt underneath his smock where Phlox had surgically removed the chest catheter. It was still painful to the touch. "With all due respect, Doctor," he said, "I've just spent the last however many days lying down. I needed to stretch my legs a bit." He knew Phlox had his best interests at heart, but he couldn't bear to go back to reclining on the bio bed, feeling the phantom restraints on his arms, the sensation of impersonal alien hands on his body.

"Well, you've stretched them. Please return to your bed."

Archer put up his hands in surrender and hoisted himself up on the bio-bed. Phlox watched him for a moment, as if to make sure he was planning to stay put, then turned and left, clicking off the overhead light as he left. Archer waited until the doctor was safely in the other room, then, with a sidelong _I-dare-you-to-say-something_ glare at T'Pol, retrieved his own padd from under his pillow and began to review the reports once again.

* * *

Sickbay was dim and quiet when Trip walked in. He had no idea what time it was. It seemed he'd been awake for days, working 'round the clock, first to locate the captain, and then to oversee repairs to the many systems that were mangled in that last fight. They had left the orbit of the planetoid just before it had disintegrated, pushing_ Enterprise_'s damaged systems as hard as they could to get out of shockwave range. They had made it only by the skin of their teeth, and now his engineering team was frantically trying to get the delicate warp engine back online and fully functional. _All I need is a wife to kill and Guilder to blame for it, and I'll be swamped_, he thought ruefully to himself.

It was either very early or very late. But the fact that Phlox had summoned him meant that he was not the only one working on a problem. He hoped the doctor was having more luck.

He strolled across the wide room, past the curtained bio-beds, to the alcove Phlox used as a laboratory. As expected, he found the Denobulan, along with T'Pol, bent over the high-powered microscope he himself had helped install years ago. "'Evening," he greeted them.

"It is seventeen minutes past oh-two hundred hours, Commander," T'Pol said absently.

"Oh, well, good morning, then," Trip amended. "What have you got?"

Phlox looked tired and drained. "It has taken several hours, and the considerable skills of Lieutenant Hess, but we have finally been able to open the case that was retrieved from the alien." He gestured to several titanium-like pieces of metal on the lab table. The MACOs had conducted a thorough and forceful pat-frisk of the alien immediately after coming back on board _Enterprise_, a search which had yielded a small translator device and a flat greyish-silver case concealed in the pockets of its clothing. The alien had so far declined to communicate via the translator, and the case had remained sealed tight, until now.

"She been taking lessons from Malcolm?" Trip asked, only a little tongue–in-cheek. Indeed, what had been a sturdy six centimeter by four centimeter locked case looked as if it had been blown to pieces, a notorious pastime of Reed's.

"They did collaborate," T'Pol replied.

"What was inside?" The two scientists weren't wearing any protective gear besides lab gloves, so he guessed that they hadn't let any deadly pathogens loose. He leaned over to peer into the microscope's eyepiece. "What am I looking at?"

"This is one of the missing Vya." Trip's head snapped up to focus on Phlox as he went on. "Vya are essentially embryos, halted in their development at a very early stage, just after fertilization. The People hold them in a sort of communal stasis facility, until a couple decides that it is time to raise a child. Once the couple is ready, the Vya is retrieved. The male of the species provides a mix of hormones and enzymes that, in a sense, jumpstarts the developmental process, and within a few days, the Vya is implanted in the female for the rest of the gestational term, which is typically a little less than an Earth year."

Trip took another look at the complex bundle of cells beneath the powerful lens. "This is all fascinating, but what's your point?" Clearly, Phlox didn't call him down to Sickbay to give an interesting lecture on alien reproductive biology.

"We've analyzed the DNA and RNA of these Vya," T'Pol put in. "Darala is the female genetic parent." Trip scowled, not liking where this was heading_ at all_. "We cannot identify the male genetic parent, as we do not have access to the entire database." She stopped.

"But . . ."

"But we did find human DNA and RNA." Phlox held Trip's horrified gaze. "It appears the activating hormones and enzymes were taken from Captain Archer."

Trip sank slowly onto the stool in front of the microscope. "Are you – are you telling me that whoever was running that laboratory created some sort of hybrid clone using the captain's cells?" He felt a wave of cold nausea wash over him. In his mind, he found himself instantly back in this Sickbay, three years before, holding his infant daughter for the first and last time. He wrapped his arms around his midsection and bent towards the floor, trying to fight back the bile. A hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, T'Pol's calming presence giving him strength and support. For a moment, all he could do was concentrate on breathing deeply and not vomiting.

After a moment, Phlox continued. "This is not a clone, Commander. It is a genetically authentic Vya, enhanced, as it were, with human reproductive cells." He reached over and picked up a tiny pyramid-shaped device. "I was able to surgically remove the catheter they used to inject drugs into the captain's system. From what T'Pol reported of her and the captain's captivity, it is clear that the drugs were used to manipulate his system for the purpose of obtaining genetic material. I found residue inside the tubes, and there were still traces of the drugs in the captain's system – a powerful synthetic adrenaline, mostly. It certainly explains why his body chemistry is irregular and," he searched for an approprite term, "'out of whack.'"

Something struck Trip. "Wait. How do you know this Vya came from Darala?"

"Mr. Reed provided a scan he had taken during an interview with Her Serenity," T'Pol replied. Trip thought back; yes, he and Malcolm had been permitted a very brief audience with Darala to find out why Arat Atanoma had taken Archer's bio-badge in the middle of the night – and then she'd promptly kicked them off the planet. He hadn't even noticed any sleight of hand with the scanner. _Chalk one up for the lieutenant's suspicious nature_. He snorted softly and shook his head.

The doctor stretched his arm to snap on a computer monitor. "There's a bit more to it, Commander." Pointing to a line of (to Trip) gibberish across the screen, he explained, "I told you that the virus infecting Egawa had both human and Carah Shon elements." Trip nodded. "Working off T'Pol's theory, that the virus was intended to be used against the People, or against humans, or both, I performed a full work-up on the Vya. Commander, I believe T'Pol's conclusion is correct. Captain Archer was taken precisely because he carries an immunity to a particular strain of a human virus, having contracted it as a young man. As such, he has antibodies in his bloodstream. I've surveyed the medical records of all of the crewmembers who visited The World. They have many illnesses in common, simple flu, measles, chicken pox, but not one of them has ever had this same virus. If I were to remove – or more likely,_ copy_ the structure of those antibodies, I could work backwards and find the genetic makeup of the virus."

"And then they went one step further, and manipulated the virus so that it would also be effective against The People," Trip supplied. "So the Vya . . .?"

Phlox gestured toward the microscope. "Based on my analysis of the Vya, I believe they are immune to the engineered hybrid virus. In other words, Commander, these enhanced Vya exist to provide the antidote to the bio-weapon were it ever to be used against humans or the Carah Shon L'os." The doctor grimaced. "Humans have only been able to use embryonic 'stem' cells effectively since the late twentieth, early twenty-first century. The level of research that we're dealing with here," he gestured, "is more advanced than anything I've seen before. Whoever possesses these embryos holds the only key to stopping the bio-weapon, or plague, if it were ever unleashed."

"It's logical to assume, Doctor," T'Pol put in, "that Lab Tech delivered at least one hybrid Vya embryo to the 'patron' upon delivery of the virus."

"Not necessarily, T'Pol," Trip said. "Cap'n said that Lab Tech and uh, Boss Flunky, were talking about how wealthy they would be from all this research. It's more likely that they gave the patron the actual cure but kept the Vya for _themselves_ in case they ever had to recreate the anti-virus."

The Vulcan considered for a moment. "Perhaps to sell to the government of the affected world to stop the virus they themselves created."

"That's why those two ships were so intent on wiping out that planetoid. They wanted to leave no trace of the laboratory, and no witnesses."_ Just like the wholesale elimination of all the conspirators on The World. No witnesses, no clues, and no way to recreate the research. _Now Geren's and Fenree's plot became crystal clear. There were billions of lives at stake, Trip realized. He rose and jogged to the comm. "Tucker to the Bridge!"

"_Carpenter, here, sir_."

"Set a course to Carah Shon, Warp Three."

"_Sir, Engineering is finishing up repairs from that last__,__ um, encounter. They said we'd have warp by about oh-seven hundred. Or so_."

Trip closed his eyes in frustration. "Lay in the course, Ensign, and let me know as soon as Hess gives the green light – and I mean the_ instant _she calls you. Tucker out." He turned around to meet the level stare of Commander T'Pol, the ship's First Officer. Then he swore quietly. "Sorry, T'Pol," he apologized sheepishly. "You want me to belay that order?" He had meant to ask her, before this whole conversation had started, whether she had been cleared by Phlox to take over command. He had just committed a serious command protocol_ faux pas_.

She raised an eyebrow. "That would be illogical. I would have given the same order. Your remaining in command will allow me to work with the doctor to isolate and synthesize the anti-virus, in case it's needed. I could not do so from the Bridge."

"I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings, though."

"Trip," she scolded lightly, no real offense taken. "Perhaps while we are waiting for the repairs, we should try to get Lab Tech to tell us whatever it knows about the plot. The more information we have going in, . . ." She let the sentence dangle, another bad habit she'd acquired from her crewmates over the years.

"So far, he's been shut up tighter than legs in a convent," Trip said, "but I'll give it another try. Maybe Malcolm's had some luck since the last time I saw him." He turned to go, then paused. "Good job, you two. Let me know if you need anything."

By the time he reached the door, the two scientists were completely absorbed in their work once again.


	15. Forgive Me If I Slip Away

**Chapter Fifteen - Forgive Me If I Slip Away**

At ten minutes past seven o'clock, Lieutenant Hess commed the Bridge with a final status report. Two minutes later, Trip gave the order to go to Warp Two, heading: the Carah Shon system. Four minutes after that, Archer paged him from Sickbay.

"Tucker here, Captain."

"What's our heading, Commander?"

"We're on our way back to Carah Shon, sir."

"Have you had any success with Lab Tech?"

"Not yet, sir."

There was a short silence. "Meet me at the Brig in twenty minutes."

Trip wasn't about to argue with that order, but he was also pretty sure that Phlox would not have released the captain for duty, light or otherwise, just yet. It had been just over twenty-four hours since Archer had been rescued from the freezing planetoid. He doubted that the doctor would let him simply walk out of Sickbay without a fight.

But, on the other hand, he'd put his money on Archer and his stubborness, any day. "Aye, sir," he said.

The bio bed squawked as Archer swung his legs to the side and slid off. Phlox had apparently learned his lesson, and had set the "wandering patient" alarm to alert him while he worked in the other room. Within seconds, the doctor was at Archer's side, protesting.

"Captain, we've just _had_ this discussion. You need to stay here until your vitals are back to normal." Tired and frustrated with the roadblocks this virus seemed to be throwing in his way at every turn, the Denobulan let his impatience show in both his expression and his tone. He reached into the pocket of his smock and withdrew a hypospray. "I'd rather not sedate you, but I will if necessary." Usually the threat of medicated oblivion was enough to subdue even the most obstreperous patients, a list on which Archer held the number two spot.

Archer eyed the hypo and drew himself up dangerously. "I remind you, Doctor, that whether or not I'm medically cleared for duty, I do still outrank you."

Wisely, the doctor slid the hypo back into his pocket and opted for a softer approach. "Well, at least let me run a couple more tests before you go, just to make sure. . ." He pulled his mediscanner from his other pocket, and stepped forward.

With good grace or ill, Archer had always complied with Phlox's directives. He clearly respected the doctor, tried not to get in his way, and even when he disagreed, he would eventually acquiesce, sometimes meekly, sometimes grumpily and reluctantly. This time, though, he snapped, "I don't _want_ to lie down. And I _don't_ want to be poked and prodded anymore. Just –" He stopped abruptly, before the next words could tumble irrevocably out of his mouth: _Don't touch me_. He glanced at T'Pol, standing at the entrance to the laboratory, drawn by the raised voices, her face showing mild surprise at his uncharacteristic outburst. He held up a hand. "I'm going to my quarters, and then I'm going to the Brig to talk to Lab Tech."

Phlox pursed his lips. "Captain, I cannot allow you to do that."

"Am I contagious? With this mystery virus?" Archer was already yanking off the hospital smock and moving toward the clothing storage locker. There was nothing in there but a large brown cotton sweatshirt with the New Berlin Academy logo on it. There were _always_ spare clothes in there. Phlox must have hidden them to discourage a breakout. He'd have to make do with the pajama pants he was wearing for the time being, then. He snatched the sweatshirt out and pulled it on, leaving untidy tufts of brown hair spiking all over his head.

"Actually, no," Phlox replied reluctantly. "In fact, you appear to be entirely immune to this strain. But you _are_ still recovering from hypothermia and malnutrition. I would like to monitor your vitals for another twenty-four hours, at least until your blood pressure and body chemistry return to normal ranges."

"Can't you monitor me remotely?" Archer vaguely indicated the bio-monitor still encircling his forearm.

The doctor shrugged. "I could, but – "

"Fine, then. I'll keep it on, I promise." Archer slapped his thigh. "Porthos, _come_." The beagle, who had been watching the proceedings from beneath Phlox's desk, came running eagerly. For the past day or so, the little dog had been banished from his sleeping master's side. Now he bounded to the door, ready to go back to his own room and his own pallet. Archer smiled at the dog for a second, then glanced up. "You'll know where to find me, Doctor," he said. With effort, he kept his strides even as he escaped Sickbay, missing the loaded look shared between the doctor and the First Officer.

Archer felt his mood lighten by degrees as he strode, out of uniform, through the corridors of his beloved ship. He already regretted pushing back against the doctor's wishes. The man was under enough stress as it was, and Archer did, once again, owe him his life. But more than anything, he had wanted to escape that space, the room that was so reminiscent of the laboratory where . . . well, he didn't even want to think about it. Even looking at T'Pol standing there, whole and healthy, did nothing to lessen the helpless shame that threatened to choke him.

He walked without having to think about direction, enjoying the twists and turns that took him closer to his quarters. He glanced down at Porthos and slowed his steps a little, noticing that the dog's short legs were having trouble keeping up. As he passed crew members, individually or in groups of two or three, he watched their faces light up in recognition and relief. Some of them found their tongues quickly enough to say, _Good morning_, and _Welcome back, Captain_, before he sped past them with a brief nod of acknowledgement. He didn't stop to chat with any of them. _Enterprise _was home to him, but at the same time, it felt strange. _He_ felt strange. He wondered if they could see the changes on his face, that he was somehow diminished, having left some precious part of himself down there on that obliterated planetoid.

For the first time in his life, he was not completely comfortable in his own skin. He stabbed out the code to his quarters, stepping inside to surround himself with the unique and familiar scents of his own life: dog and coffee and sandalwood shampoo. After so many days of sensory deprivation, he could even pick out the smell of the detergent used to launder his sheets. He could both feel and hear the hum of the warp engine, coming up through the deck plates, vibrating under his bare feet.

As Porthos curled himself up on his pallet, exhausted from the exertion of the trot from Sickbay, Archer stripped off the borrowed clothing and tossed them into the laundry bin. He carefully removed the bio-monitor and set it aside for the moment, not sure whether it was fully waterproof. He turned the shower spigot on full blast, as hot as it would go, and stepped underneath, whistling painfully through his teeth as the needles of scalding water attacked his skin. Ten minutes later, having significantly depleted his soap supply, he stepped out, feeling no cleaner than he had before. The grim, sunken face staring back at him in his anti-fog mirror didn't wince as he scraped the stubble off of his cheeks and chin. As promised, he re-attached the bio-monitor to his upper arm.

Carefully and deliberately, he pulled on the components of his official uniform: snug blue underwear, blissfully warm socks, the buttoned black shirt and blue jumpsuit, boots. He had to admit it felt good not to be going commando for the first time in a week and a half. With each piece of clothing, each layer, he recovered more of the captain, leaving the prisoner and damaged man further and further behind.

At least, that's what he hoped.

Finally, he reached into his drawer to retrieve his spare pips, those bits of metal that defined him every bit as closely and completely as did his name. Because if he wasn't Captain Jonathan Archer, then who was he? Ex-prisoner? Patient? Victim? Abuse survivor? He turned his back on all of those labels, figuratively speaking, and pinned his rank insignia to his shoulder panel. He combed his damp hair, then straightened his spine and squared his shoulders.

"What do you think, buddy?" He addressed this question to the dog who was patiently watching from the deck at the foot of the bed. Porthos twitched one floppy ear. Archer chose to interpret that as, _Good to go_. He checked the clock. He had two minutes to get to the Brig. "Time for some answers," he said to the room, and walked to the door.

* * *

Trip was waiting for the captain just outside the Brig's outer door, having made a special effort not to be late for once. _It was a close thing, though_, he mused as he smoothed the fabric of his jumpsuit one last time. Reed shot him a sidelong glance and muttered, "Quit fidgeting, Commander," out of the side of his mouth, just as Archer came into view. As he stepped forward to offer Archer a welcoming handshake, he knew immediately that something was wrong. The captain seemed stiffly held together, wary, as if there were some invisible barrier between them. _Come on, cut the guy some slack_, he admonished himself. _The past several days haven't exactly been a picnic for him_.

"Commander," Archer said. "How's it going?" This was not a casual query, Trip knew; the captain wanted a full but succinct report on the status of his ship since they had last spoken.

"Good to see you up and around, Captain," he answered, injecting as much warmth as he could into his voice. "I want to introduce you to Ms Shevon Oreevi, of The People's Liaison Office. She came aboard just before we left The World. She's been a great help to Hoshi and me in trying to figure out what the hell's going on here." Shevon blinked several times, her coloring betraying her nervousness. Archer shook her hand with both of his, thanking her for all her assistance with just enough of his normal charm to be believable. "We've had no luck getting this guy - T'Pol says you two started calling him Lab Tech - getting him to talk to us. Not a word."

"Where's the box?" Archer asked, then clarified, "The translating device." Reed produced it from a uniform pocket and handed it to him gingerly, as if he thought it might explode unexpectedly. Archer turned it over a few times, studying it, his face unreadable. Then he said, "Open the door."

When the captain stepped into the brightly lit outer room of the Brig, Lab Tech immediately reacted, either with anticipation or fear, Trip couldn't tell which. The alien, which had been lying motionless on the bunk for the past several hours, sat up abruptly and gripped the edge of the mattress. It flicked its wrist twice, a motion that seemed to be a deliberate effort to communicate - the first one so far - rather than a meaningless reflex action.

Archer walked up to the plexi wall and held up the translator box. Several seconds ticked by in loaded silence. Then he unlocked the door and stepped inside, ignoring Reed's murmur of warning. He set the box on the floor of the tiny cell and said flatly, "Turn it on. Just voice. No visual."

Lab Tech regarded the box for a moment then reached out a hand. Reed's phase pistol was in his palm before the alien had completed the motion, and the MACO standing guard next to the outer door flicked the safety off his pulse rifle. "Stand down," Archer ordered brusquely. More slowly this time, Lab Tech placed a claw on the box and it buzzed to life.

_This is your ship_. Lab Tech's "voice" was unnerving after all these hours of unresponsive silence. It sounded vaguely familiar to Trip, as odd as that seemed, but he couldn't place it. _Your medicine is effective. You were very ill_.

"Yes, this is my ship," Archer replied, ignoring the rest of Lab Tech's observation. "My name is Jonathan Archer, and you are on the Earth starship, _Enterprise_. I'm here to ask you some questions, and I expect your cooperation."

Lab Tech didn't answer verbally, but flicked its wrist again, once.

"Who paid you to create the virus?"

_The patron. You know this_.

"Who is the patron?"

_It has no name. It is the patron_.

"What species?" Lab Tech remained silent. Archer repeated the question, enunciating slowly. "What. Species."

Lab Tech raised a hand and pointed one claw-tipped finger toward Shevon. _That. One is the male of that. One is the female of that_.

"If I had one guess," Trip said quietly, "I'd say he's talking about Geren Liaison and Ryamon Fenree."

"Do those names sound familiar?" Archer asked Lab Tech.

_I have no knowledge of names_.

"Tell me why the virus was created. Who are they going to use it against?"

Again Lab Tech paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. Trip could feel Archer's impatience. He said, "Look, if they're planning on releasing the virus as some sort of biological weapon, that makes you an accessory to murder. All those deaths will be your fault. We're trying to stop it. So tell us what you know."

_I must . . . cooperate_? Lab Tech said, directing its gaze toward the captain, and Trip felt Archer's tension suddenly spike. There was a dynamic going on here that he didn't understand. Archer's expression was one of utter fury, as if he were two seconds away from leaping across the cell and strangling the prisoner. The captain looked the way Trip had felt the first time he'd laid eyes on Degra, the chief designer of the Xindi weapon. He couldn't read Lab Tech's reptilian face at all, but if he had to describe the atmosphere, he'd say that Lab Tech was taunting Archer for some reason.

He decided to step into the fray. "What are you protecting them for? They left you to _die_ on that planet. Those earthquakes? That was your precious patron bombing you from space. As far as they're concerned, they were better off erasing all the witnesses, including you. They were never going to pay you whatever they promised you." Trip shook his head. "Our doctor's working on a cure for that virus you developed, but it'll go quicker and easier if you give it to us. We still have time to stop a genocide."

_You are the source_, Lab Tech said to Archer, ignoring Trip completely. _You are the cure_. And with that, the alien bent down and turned the translator off.

Archer stood in the cell for a moment more, vibrating with rage. The chime of the comm. released him. "Bridge to Commander Tucker," Hoshi said.

Trip nodded to Reed without moving from the cell, a little bit afraid that if he left, Archer would kill the prisoner. As Reed thumbed the switch, Trip raised his voice to reach the comm. panel. "Tucker. What's our status, Hoshi?"

"_Sir, we're approaching the Carah Shon system. I've been scanning their communications frequencies, and . . . it's weird. It's as if all the channels have been shut down_."

"What do you mean?"

"_There is no chatter at all coming from The World. The communications systems seem to be functional, and the satellites are all still in orbit, but – it's like nobody's talking_." Even over the comm. system, Trip could hear Hoshi's concern and puzzlement. He frowned. If Hoshi couldn't figure it out, it was something more than just a problem.

"No interference, no radiation signatures?" As much as his mind rejected the idea, he had to assume the worst until he had more information.

"_Just . . . nothing, sir. Here_," he heard her mutter off-mic, "_let me try this_." Before she had finished the last word, an earsplitting squeal pierced through the comm. speaker, reducing everyone in earshot to a cringing, squinting ball of pain. After ten seconds, the noise stopped abruptly.

"What the hell was that?" Archer demanded, for the moment shaken out of his battle of wills with Lab Tech.

"That _was a lovely little feedback pulse_," Hoshi replied wryly. Trip could only imagine the agony experienced by the Bridge crew, who had gotten the noise first-hand and unfiltered. "_They really, really don't seem to want to talk to us_."

"Too bad," Trip snapped, "'cuz we've got some unfinished business with _them_." He had half a mind to leave them to find their own damn cure. If it were up to him - and if it wouldn't offend every principle Starfleet stood for - they'd be looking at the ass-end of _Enterprise_ at warp speed. But that wasn't Archer's style, and Trip was just holding _Enterprise_'s reins until the captain was cleared to resume command. "Keep hailing them, Ensign. We're on our way." The humans backed out of the cell, leaving the voice box inside in the event Lab Tech reconsidered its position on cooperation.

Archer stopped just outside the Brig. "You go to the Bridge, Trip, and find out what's going on. I'm going to take another crack at Lab Tech. If what I'm afraid of has happened, we're going to need that anti-virus sooner rather than later." He shrugged. "I'm still on medical leave, anyway. I might as well make myself useful."

Trip studied his captain. He didn't know for sure what the deal was between Archer and the alien, but there was an underlying animosity that even he couldn't miss. Archer did seem to be very tightly wound, and he wasn't sure it was a good idea to leave him with an unarmed prisoner, especially a prisoner who, according to T'Pol, had more likely than not crossed a personal line with Archer. After all, there were only so many ways you could obtain genetic material from a man.

"I'll leave Malcolm with you, just in case Lab Tech tries anything." The glitter in Archer's eyes told Trip that his explanation was a little too transparent. No matter. He didn't really think Archer would execute the prisoner in cold blood, but it wouldn't hurt to have a little extra insurance on that point. He turned to Shevon and asked her politely to accompany him to the Bridge. He had a hunch that she might have some diplomatic backdoor they might be able to use. Or maybe she could just sweet-talk The People into not blowing _Enterprise_ out of orbit, if they got that far. "I'll talk to Phlox," Trip added. "'Cuz I feel like I'm about to be out of my league real soon."

A flash of the old Archer appeared for a moment as the captain clapped Trip gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure you can handle it," he said. "But make sure you care take of my ship, Commander."

* * *

Phlox pushed away from the lab bench, cursing loudly in Denobulan. T'Pol merely glanced at him with an raised brow. After close to forty-eight hours of non-stop failure, she was close to cursing, herself. She leaned over to peer into the microscope. As she'd expected, the latest batch of cultivated cells had disintegrated when exposed to the proposed anti-viral. The latest serum they had come up with succeeded in destroying the virus, but it would also kill the patient. And from the looks of the cell destruction, the patient's death would be most unpleasant.

"Doctor," T'Pol suggested, "perhaps you should take a break. You haven't eaten in several hours. You may be able to focus more clearly with some calorie intake." She knew that Phlox had a penchant for consuming vast amounts of food at a time. His increasingly frequent outbursts of frustration seemed to indicate that he needed to eat – and to get away from the lab for a few minutes.

"We don't have time for a dinner break!" Phlox ripped off his gloves and threw them testily into the biohazard bin.

"We equally don't have time to redo lab tests because of errors caused by lack of food or," she added pointedly to include herself, "lack of meditation. In the long run, it makes more sense to do whatever is necessary to keep our focus sharp, than to keep working and risk making small but serious mistakes."

Phlox took a deep breath. "You're right, T'Pol, and logical, as usual."

She nodded slightly to acknowledge the compliment, then observed, "There is one thing we have not tried, Doctor."

He cocked his head curiously. "I've used every method of analysis I can think of, T'Pol. I can't imagine what we've missed."

Keeping her voice level, she said, "We have not asked Lab Tech for its assistance."

Phlox's mouth opened and closed numerous times before he let out a sound halfway between a peep and a squawk. "You can't be serious, Commander!"

"It is one of the creators of the virus, Doctor," she pointed out. "It is logical to assume that it can produce the cure, or at least lead us to it."

"I will not have that _monster_ in my laboratory," Phlox sputtered. He stalked the length of the room, flapped his arms in indignation, and stormed back. "In any event, the captain would never allow it."

The Vulcan paused. The doctor did have a point, there. But she knew Archer at least well enough to be sure that he would consider the possibility that they had no other choice. "Will you at least agree to let me ask his permission?"

Phlox glowered at the microscope with its now-useless slide, and let his electric blue eyes roam over the computer monitor, as if he expected the answer to the puzzle to suddenly appear there by magic. Then he peered beyond the lab door, to Sickbay's main room, where Egawa lay, valiantly fighting for his life. With a heavy sigh, he relented. "I don't think he'll agree, but go ahead and ask him, T'Pol."

T'Pol felt a tug of empathy for the doctor. Standing there among his state-of-the-art equipment, with the collected knowledge and research of the Interspecies Medical Exchange database at his fingertips, he nevertheless looked totally defeated. She did not know how he would cope if they failed to disarm the threatened biological weapon. She decided then and there that if Captain Archer could not bring himself to ask for Lab Tech's help, she would do it herself. "I suggest you take some time to get something to eat, Doctor. I'll be in the Brig."

* * *

To his credit, Archer did not react as violently as T'Pol had expected. In fact, his only response was a mild, "Let me get this straight, T'Pol. You want me to give laboratory access to the creator of a virulent bio-weapon, so that it can help you develop an anti-viral for the weapon it created?" As the question didn't seem to require an actual answer, T'Pol kept silent. "And," Archer went on, "I'm supposed to get it to cooperate by asking it nicely?" They were walking at a sedate pace down the corridor, side by side, as if discussing some minor shipboard business.

"Lab Tech has not demonstrated any open hostility, Captain, merely a scientific curiosity," T'Pol offered. "It appears to me to be an opportunistic being. Given the right incentive, it is possible that Lab Tech would cooperate with us."

"What incentive were you thinking of?" Archer asked, in a carefully bland tone.

"We could give it biological information from our database."

"We've seen what they do with our biological data, T'Pol."

"No, Captain, we've seen how they _obtain_ biological data. The experiments conducted on us were, for the most part, a crash course in human and Vulcan physiology, not anything intended to harm us. According to Shevon Oreevi, The Explorers, as a race, consider the pursuit of biological sciences their life's great mission. That was the basis of the early relationship between The People and The Explorers, medical research and development in exchange for technology." As if anticipating Archer's resistance, T'Pol continued more strongly. "Would it not assist the Coalition to create an alliance with the Explorers _as well as_ with the Carah Shon L'os? This is what we have to offer them – a vast biological database – and at the same time, we have the opportunity both to avert a catastrophe on The World and to cultivate another ally against the Romulans."

Archer was quiet for a long time. They reached a dead end, a closed hatch leading into a completely separate area of the ship. He made a soft about-face and began strolling back toward the Brig.

"I know that this is a difficult thing to do," T'Pol said quietly, keeping pace with his long strides out of years of practice, "especially in light of what has happened to you."

"You don't know anything about it," Archer said stiffly.

"I know that you are an exceptionally private person, and that your privacy was invaded."

"I'm not talking about this with you, T'Pol, so drop it. Now."

She added softly, "I am not a stranger to such a genetic experiment, similar in degree, if not in kind." He wondered if her sensitive hearing picked up the sound of his teeth grinding.

Finally, he remarked, "I suppose it's true that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

T'Pol's expression slid into confusion before she caught herself. "Why would one want to catch flies?"

Archer had to think about it for a minute. "Fishing, maybe? I don't know. It's just a saying." She still looked skeptical. "It means that sometimes offering something attractive for a thing gets you better results than threatening. It means that I have to put my pride away. Again."

"Your pride is quite formidable," T'Pol observed, "I'm sure it will survive."

Archer snorted. If Vulcan back-handed complimenting were an Olympic sport, this woman would medal without breaking a sweat. He stopped walking and looked down at her. "When I left _Enterprise_ two weeks ago," he said slowly, "I was a man in command of my ship and myself. So much of that has been . . . taken away from me. Or maybe surrendered. I'm not sure if any of it is true anymore. My thoughts, my dreams, my – my _self . . . _I guess I'm not sure how much is really mine now. I don't think there's anything left that hasn't been exposed by that . . . thing in there." He shook his head. "Saving a world, avoiding a possible genocide, that _should_ be pretty good incentive to get me to go in there and beg. But, God help me, T'Pol, I don't know if I can make myself do it."

"Are you concerned that if you strike a bargain, Lab Tech will not keep its promise?"

The laugh this time was bitter. "Oh, I have no worries about that. Lab Tech is a liar and maybe even a mass murderer, but I have no doubt that if it agrees to a bargain, it will keep its end of the deal." He caught the question in her eyes and added, "It gave me back you."

He watched her face as she figured out what the terms had been. He squared his shoulders. "I'm not sold on the whole bio-data for research idea. But," he interrupted as she appeared to want to argue her point further, "but I _am_ willing to try the honey approach." A flicker of satisfaction appeared briefly on her face. "Just don't expect any miracles," he warned her.

She responded dryly, "I never do, Captain."

Thirty minutes later, surrounded by four security officers and escorted by one heavily armed MACO, Lab Tech sat down between T'Pol and Phlox in the Sickbay laboratory and began to review the doctor's research.

Archer retreated to his quarters and took another long, hot shower.


	16. Not The Trusting Type

**Chapter Sixteen - Not The Trusting Type**

"Still getting radio silence on The World?" Trip asked, entering the Bridge.

Hoshi turned in her seat, pressing a finger to her aural receiver. "It's odd. We've just passed the fifth planet, so we're inside the system, but I can't raise anything. Our long range sensors aren't picking up anything from The World."

"Huh." Trip studied the tiny, cloud-covered world way in the distance, then turned to Hoshi. "Are we close enough to get a message to Carah Shon?"

The Communications Officer checked her console. "Barely. If I boost the signal, we should be able to, but we're still pretty far out."

"Hail Ohm Derrea, then." At her nod, he projected his voice. "This is Commander Tucker of the Starship _Enterprise_. It's important that I speak to whoever's in charge there, immediately."

Hoshi shook her head once. "No response."

Trip tried again. "I need whoever's getting this message to patch me through to the Palace of Her Serenity."

Nothing. He craned his neck around to the Science station, a little disappointed to see Ensign Stackhouse still manning that console. He wished T'Pol were here with him on the Bridge, but had to agree with the captain that even her limited expertise in virology would benefit Phlox's efforts. Raising a hand to stifle a yawn of fatigue, he peered once again at the arm rest display. First chance he got, he'd install a bigger screen, he decided, squinting. And maybe a cup holder.

After another moment of frustrating silence, Trip said, "Travis, do a long range scan for any vessels between here and there. That feedback pulse had to come from somewhere."

"Aye, sir," the helmsman responded, moving slight to his left.

His response was immediate, and urgent. "Sir, three ships incoming at warp one, directly on an intercept course. Eight hundred thousand kilometers and closing."

Reed had not returned to his station yet, so Trip initiated a Tactical Alert, cursing. "Stackhouse, get over there and make sure those weapons are brought on line!" He stabbed the button on the arm of the chair. "Captain Archer, report to the Bridge." He hadn't had a chance to talk to Phlox, so he didn't know if the captain had been medically cleared to resume command yet, and he didn't care. If they were heading into a fire-fight, they'd need someone higher up than third-in-command on the Bridge, and Trip would need to haul ass down to Engineering. The Bridge bustled with sudden activity, as the crew scrambled to cover vacant stations.

"Hull plating's polarized, sir," Stackhouse reported, sounding scared. "Weapons hot."

It was just in the nick of time, as three heavy cruisers dropped out of warp within a thousand kilometers from _Enterprise_ and opened fire.

* * *

The deck tilted and shook underneath Archer's feet as _Enterprise_ absorbed a second blast. He could almost feel the ship's distress as onboard systems struggled to route power to the hull. He steadied himself with one hand on the bulkhead, then continued his headlong dash to the turbolift. T'Pol beat him there by seconds, her eyes flicking over him once, head to toe; she was assessing his ability to handle this crisis, he knew. He gave her a brief, grim smile, completely devoid of humor, to reassure her. The lift stuttered, the power flickering off for a long second. Archer blessed the sturdy ship and her engineers as the lift resumed its smooth motion and deposited them safely onto the Bridge instead of plunging them down several decks to their deaths.

He charged onto the Bridge, barking, "Report!"

Trip shot out of the command chair and stepped aside. "Three ships, sir. Carah Shon. Appeared out of nowhere and just started shooting, no questions asked." By the end of his status report, Trip was already halfway to auxiliary to check on the status of the just recently repaired engines, and Archer had sat down to study the preliminary status reports. Reed, skidding onto the Bridge from an access tube, had sent Stackhouse back to Science only moments before, and was coordinating _Enterprise_'s response, just as Mayweather coaxed the ship into a sickening evasive roll. The inertial dampeners strained, causing Trip to frown as he continued, "No communications yet. I've seen the specs on those ships, though. We're _way_ outgunned, sir."

"This is Captain Archer. There had better be a damn good reason why you're firing on my ship!"

"I'm getting damage reports from all departments, including Engineering, sir," Hoshi shouted over the din. Archer skimmed through the readouts, trying to form a defense strategy.

"Permission to get the hell down to Engineering, sir?" The edge in Trip's voice told Archer all he needed to know about the status of the engines. They were in trouble.

"Granted." Trip left without another word.

As Reed struggled to find a firing solution, Archer opened the comm. line. "I say again, this is _Enterprise_ – identify yourself!"

The ship shuddered again. A station at the back of the Bridge burst into sparks and flame. Stackhouse, who'd landed there like a pinball at rest after being tapped out of Science by T'Pol, staggered back in surprise and pain.

"We're losing hull plating," T'Pol said, her voice tense. "We cannot hold off three cruisers. I suggest we withdraw."

"Withdraw to _where_? We're not going to be able to outrun them, T'Pol. We don't even know why they're –" He stopped as the three ships abruptly stopped firing. Archer blinked in the dim light and smoke of the Bridge. He looked at Hoshi with a question in his eyes, then glanced at T'Pol. This type of sudden silence was, in his experience, hardly _ever_ a good sign.

"We're being hailed, sir," Hoshi said quietly. "The lead ship's call sign translates to the _Ranger_."

"Oh, right, so _now_ they want to talk," Archer muttered, and nodded to the view screen. The menacing triumvirate was replaced with an image of a Carah Shon man whom Archer vaguely recognized from his time on planet but could not name.

"Your starship is not welcome in this system," the man said.

Archer couldn't tell from his coloring whether he was angry or offended or both. "Just who the hell are you?" he demanded hotly.

The man looked for a moment as though he wasn't going to answer, then he said stiffly, "I am Aloh Jin Sava."

He knew that name, didn't he? He threw a helpless look over his shoulder to T'Pol, his walking encyclopedia. "Aloh Jin Sava. You are cousin to Arat Atanoma, a member of the governing council, the _Teryat_, is that correct?" she put in, partly to keep the alien talking, not shooting, and partly to jog Archer's memory.

"What do you know of my family?" Jin Sava asked warily.

"Mr. Atanoma was my guide during my time on The World," Archer said. "I spent a lot of time in his company."

Jin Sava paused, then blinked several times, slowly. "Ah. I think this is maybe another human deception. You claim to be Captain Archer. Captain Archer is dead. You will surrender your vessel and prepare to be boarded."

"Like hell," Archer said, making an effort to reign in his temper. "Look, we have information regarding a serious threat to The People, and we're just asking for a chance to help you avoid a . . . situation."

"Elaborate," Jin Sava demanded.

Archer paused. He considered whether to reveal the conspiracy that, for all he knew, went all the way up to the Regent's Palace. He decided to hold back that information for the moment. "Look," he said patiently, "I'd really rather have this discussion face-to-face than shouting at each other over thousands of kilometers."

The only answer was a blank screen as Jin Sava abruptly cut the transmission. Archer looked at Hoshi wryly. "Was it something I said?"

"Sir," Malcolm murmured from Tactical, "Jin Sava might not be aware that Arat Atanoma was killed, and by whom. If we're not careful, he may think that we were behind it. He doesn't seem at all the trusting type."

"Frankly, I don't blame him. I'm a little paranoid at this point, myself."

The comm. chirped again. Archer took a deep breath and gave Hoshi the "put it up" gesture. Jin Sava's face reappeared. He looked even angrier than he had the first time.

"_Enterprise_, you will power down and surrender your vessel. I am placing you and your crew under arrest for the abduction and murder of a citizen of The World."

That took Archer by surprise. _What the hell was _with _these people? _He drew himself up to his full height and demanded, "What are you talking about? Abducted and murdered who?"

"A citizen named Shevon Oreevi, an aide with the Liaison Office."

"I assure you that Ms Oreevi is alive and well and on board _Enterprise_," Archer interrupted. "We didn't kidnap her; she contacted _us_."

"I will not give you a second warning," Jin Sava said sternly.

"If I may," cut in a soft, feminine voice. Archer had completely forgotten that Trip had brought Shevon to the Bridge earlier. She'd spent the terrifying moments of the short battle huddled in a corner near the situation console, close to the emergency exit. Now she stepped forward, still bundled in Reed's parka and gloves, to stand next to Archer. Although her voice was firm, Archer could feel her trembling. "Your attack on this human vessel is unwarranted and unprovoked. I chose to come aboard this ship freely, and without coercion. Furthermore, I can tell you that there is a plot against The World, but it does not originate with these humans. They are trying to stop it. Time is of the essence, Sava _Teryat_, if we are – together – going to avert a disaster for The People."

It took a moment for the shocked expression, body and facial, to subside. Jin Sava seemed completely at a loss for words. "What is the nature of this threat?" he asked finally.

"It'd be better if we spoke over a secure line, or better yet, face to face," Archer said.

"Take your weapons off-line, _Enterprise_, and prepare to be boarded. I will give you a chance to explain yourself." Jin Sava sounded eminently reasonable, and completely capable of giving the order to annihilate the starship without blinking.

Archer turned his face slightly toward Tactical. "Malcolm," he prompted quietly. The lieutenant hesitated only briefly, then touched a few buttons, clearly unhappy with the state of things. There was only one chance to bring _Enterprise_ through this intact, though, and Archer intended to make the most of it. He lifted his chin with a totally fabricated confidence and said to Jin Sava, "Our docking port is available . . . "

"Not necessary," Jin Sava said. "I see you have a rudimentary particle transporting device. We will use our transporter and materialize on your receiving platform." The screen went blank.

"T'Pol, Malcolm, Ms Oreevi, you're with me," Archer said, a little bit miffed at Jin Sava's wholly unnecessary swipe at their technology. To Mayweather, he instructed, "Clear the corridors and brief Commander Tucker." The four of them headed for the lift.

There were not many times in his life that Archer felt completely intimidated. This was one of them. Jin Sava materialized in a brief, soundless cascade of blue light, alone. Archer steeled himself not to react. The alien topped him by at least six centimeters, and was broader across, as well. He was dressed in what appeared to be simple civilian clothes, a blue and grey high-necked tunic over black trousers. There were no markings or insignia indicating his position or office. A murmur from Reed told Archer that there were no recognizable weapons present. In the few moments it had taken them to reach the transporter platform, T'Pol had reminded Archer that Jin Sava was a high ranking politician in Darala's government, with a reputation of being independently minded and not always in agreement with the policies of The One Who Is. He wondered where Jin Sava fell on the Carah Shon untrustworthiness scale.

Jin Sava stepped down from the transporter pad. "Welcome aboard," Archer said, striving for normalcy. The fact that Jin Sava had come aboard unarmed only made him more uneasy. Clearly, the alien was not concerned about any resistance _Enterprise_ or her crew might offer. "This is my First Officer, T'Pol, and my Tactical Officer, Malcolm Reed. You're acquainted with Shevon Oreevi."

Jin Sava immediately pulled a small hand-held device from a holster. Archer snapped a hand up to keep Malcolm from reacting. The device whirred as Jin Sava scanned Archer first, then T'Pol, and studied the results. "Captain Jonathan Archer," Jin Sava said, with some surprise in his voice. "Interesting. And Commander T'Pol, also reported dead."

Archer didn't bother to come up with a witty rejoinder. Too much was at stake, and there was too little time. At least Jin Sava seemed to believe that they were who they said they were.

Jin Sava turned and scanned Shevon, blinking in what Archer interpreted as relief. Then he slid the scanner back into its holder. "I am Jin Sava _Teryat_, representing The People of the World. I warn you: at the slightest indication that this is a trap, my second is instructed to retrieve me immediately and destroy this ship."

Archer suppressed his anger at being threatened on his own vessel, and kept his response mild. "As I said, we'll give you all the information you want. We're not enemies here."

The alien blew out a breath. "This cold, is it Earth-normal?" he asked in a noticeably less aggressive tone. He sounded almost plaintive.

"It's Earth-average," T'Pol answered, sounding rueful. "It's comfortable for the level of clothing humans prefer to wear." Under other circumstances, Archer might have smiled at her all-too-obvious empathy with a fellow hot-planet dweller.

"We've made accommodations for you," Archer added. "Follow me."

They quickly made their way to the upper observation deck, for the moment off-limits to crew. When the door slid open, the blast of heat and humidity nearly knocked Archer over. After Shevon had come aboard, Trip had adjusted the environment in the room to close to Carah Shon normal, which was to say, unbearably hot and muggy, by human standards. At either end of the room, two humidifiers blasted out clouds of steam, which rose to the ceiling and hung in a heavy fog. The engineer had also removed all of the computer screens and any sensitive equipment, all of which would be utterly ruined by the condensation.

Jin Sava breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the room. The security officer assigned to guard the visitor hung his head briefly in despair before following him inside. Archer closed the door behind the alien to keep the moist air from escaping.

T'Pol placed a hand on Archer's forearm. "Captain, are you certain that you are up to this interview?"

More than anything else, the physical contact told Archer how deep T'Pol's concerns went, but for the first time since he'd known her, her touch felt invasive to him. He stared at her hand for a moment, resisting the urge to snatch his arm away. He reminded himself once again that this was "his" T'Pol, not any imposter, but took a half-step back nonetheless, just far enough that her hand slid off his sleeve and fell back to her side. He replied shortly, "I'll let you know if I reach my limit, Commander," and turned his attention to Reed. "How good is your evidence, Lieutenant?"

"Rock solid, sir." Reed sounded confident, but not boastful.

"If we don't convince this guy that there is a plot against The World underway," Archer pressed, "he's going to order those ships out there to blow us to pieces. You'd better be damned persuasive, Malcolm."

Reed nodded once. "Understood, sir." Archer clapped him on the shoulder and thumbed the door open. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to drag himself across the threshold into the tropical room.

* * *

Reed had never studied law, a fact he now regretted as Jin Sava sat at the table silently, waiting to be impressed or convinced. He and Hoshi had pored through every piece of evidence, sifting facts from fiction, truth from lies. The one thing he knew for certain: he could not take anything Geren Liaison and Ryamon Fenree had told him at face value.

One unknown remained, whether this Jin Sava was in league with them, or truly an independent mind. He recalled Geren's description of the man. "_That is a minor dignitary named Aloh Jin Sava. He is sometimes a businessman, sometimes a politician. All the time not to be trusted . . . We've suspected for some time that Jin Sava has been plotting against the government, but so far we have had little success in uncovering the scheme."_

Reed folded his hands on the table top and began carefully. "Ten days ago, Captain Archer, Commander T'Pol, and Crewman James Egawa left The World after a diplomatic mission. They were transported by an official shuttle provided by the House of Darala. The shuttle never reached _Enterprise_. Before the shuttle came into range of this ship, it was attacked and boarded by five aliens, of a race you call The Explorers. When we tracked the shuttle, we saw it explode, seemingly with all aboard killed. But when we recreated the flight and looked more closely, we discovered that it was all an illusion – our people had been transferred to a different ship before it detonated."

"Who would do such a thing?" the alien demanded.

Reed activated the padd and wiped away the thin film of moisture that had accumulated on the screen in the past few minutes. "We believe it was this man, Geren Obot Liaison." He pulled up another still photograph. "Along with this woman, who we know as Ryamon Fenree."

Jin Sava was silent for more than a minute. Finally, he blinked once, unreadably, and said, "Continue."

Reed outlined the facts he and Commander Tucker had collected. Jin Sava gave no outward reaction as Reed described Atanoma's interrogations, confession, and eventual death. He listened silently as Reed put each piece together carefully, implicating Geren and Fenree by both direct and circumstantial evidence.

"Geren and Fenree seemed to be conducting a thorough investigation into the captain's disappearance, when, in reality, it was a stall to keep us from following our own leads. They were buying time by wasting ours." Reed's mouth twisted in self-derision. "And we fell right into their trap. In the meantime, the kidnappers took Captain Archer, Commander T'Pol, and Crewman James Egawa to a small moon in the next system. There, The Explorers conducted extensive medical experiments on them."

The alien turned his attention to Archer. "For what purpose?"

The captain answered reluctantly, as if each word were being pulled from him individually. "They created a biological weapon, a virus genetically engineered from an illness I had almost thirty years ago. They had access to my genetic profile from two days before I ever set foot on The World."

Jin Sava sat back at that, frowning deeply. "What does it matter to The People if these two have created a human virus? You said there was a threat to The World."

The data on the padd screen changed at a touch. "Because humanity was not the only target," Reed said, more than a little impatient with the utter self-centeredness of The People. Apparently, mass murder didn't register if it were merely directed at those who were "Not of The People." "Using stolen Vya, the Explorer scientists modified the virus to be deadly to Carah Shon L'os as well, not just humans." He placed the padd on the table and turned it so that the screen faced Jin Sava.

"That is not possible," Jin Sava replied dismissively, flicking the padd away with his forefinger. "The People are not genetically compatible with . . . humans." The contempt and condescension contained in that word were unmistakable. _Be persuasive_, the captain had said. Clearly, they'd need more proof.

"You're sure about that?" Reed stepped to the comm. console and pressed the activation button. "Lieutenant Reed to Sickbay. Would you escort our guest to the observation deck on C?"

It did not escape Reed's notice that the captain abruptly stood and strode over to the porthole as Lab Tech (or rather, Niyiik - pronounced _Neek_ - and he really didn't get why all the extra letters were necessary, but Hoshi was the linguistics expert, not him, and that's how she'd spelled it) was brought in, keeping the large rectangular table between himself and the alien. The security escort placed Lab Tech's translator box on the table and took up a position just behind the chair. Archer eyed the device with obvious loathing. "Is that necessary?" he demanded.

"Sir," Reed said quietly, "our UT still has too many translation gaps. Hoshi's been able to load only about eighty-five percent of the language into the database. She says it has to do with the fact that part of the language is comprised of gestures."

Archer waved his hand once. "Fine." But he did not resume his seat at the table.

As Reed started his interview with Lab Tech, Jin Sava's face and color registered puzzlement. After a moment, he interrupted. "Why are you using this limited communication? Is there some malfunction?"

T'Pol glanced at Archer, then replied, "Humans are not completely comfortable with the . . . enhanced communication used by The Explorers and The People. It is preferable to keep this interview as audio only." Reed didn't understand the strange undercurrent that seemed to pass between the captain and the First Officer. He knew from Shevon's description that The Explorers' technology included some sort of projection, but had not seen it in action. He had assumed that it was a process that humans could not participate in. Now, he wondered if there were some other reason for limiting Lab Tech's communication.

Jin Sava shifted impatiently. "You said that this information was important. I took that to mean that it was also time-sensitive."

Both Reed and T'Pol looked to the captain for guidance. Archer stared at Jin Sava for a moment, his jaw clenching repeatedly, then nodded once, tersely. "Go ahead," he ground out.

Reed pushed the translator box a little closer to Lab Tech, interested now in seeing the device at work. After a pause, Lab Tech reached out and activated the translator. To Reed's astonishment, a completely different being appeared in Lab Tech's place, seemingly as solid and real as Reed himself.

The avatar had some of the physical features of the Carah Shon L'os, but remnants of The Explorers' appearance existed, as well. To Reed, it was like looking at a child and trying to determine which parent it most resembled, only to conclude that it was a perfect amalgam of both, and, at the same time, completely unique. It was clearly not a mere projection, for it manipulated the translator device a bit, perhaps adjusting the frequency, before it began to speak. He wondered if this were the kind of holographic technology that Commander Tucker had encountered on the Xyrillian ship years ago. Trip had described it as being "real." _You could smell the ocean, feel the salt air on your skin._

Then another thought struck him, this one making him go cold all over. The Xyrillians were not the only species they'd encountered with advanced hologram technology. Those Romulan decoy ships, the ones that had masqueraded as Tellarite and Andorian vessels in order to provoke a war and prevent the alliance between the two former enemies, did they possess this level of technology as well? Had it come from the same source?

He glanced over at the captain, and noticed that the man had gone completely pale, his dark eyebrows standing out against a bone-white face, as if he were barely able to keep his disgust or loathing, or even fear, under control.

Reed realized he had missed Lab Tech's first few comments, and wrestled his attention back to the conversation.

It quickly became clear that, like every other conspirator involved in the plot, Lab Tech knew only enough information to get its job done. It confirmed the theory Phlox and T'Pol had already worked out, that the virus could be used against humans and The People both, and that the anti-virus was based on a delicate genetic balance between the two species. It volunteered, almost as a careless afterthought, that it possessed biological data on Vulcans, too, as well as a species it had come across called the Terellians, and could, with very little effort, develop a similar biological weapon against each of those species. According to Lab Tech, whether the biological weapon was used or not, or against whom, was not its concern. It had completed its assignment as directed.

When Reed had finished, he looked at Jin Sava, but the alien did not seem inclined to ask any follow-up questions. From across the room, though, came Archer's quiet query. "Why humans? There have been several other species who have visited The World in the past generation. Why target humans?" Jin Sava seemed to grow suddenly tense.

Lab Tech's avatar turned in the captain's direction. _You were appropriate_, it said blandly. _You met the parameters of the assignment._ It stopped, as if this were explanation enough. Reed began to understand the captain's hostility; obviously to Lab Tech and its fellow scientists, Archer and T'Pol and Egawa had no intrinsic value, no rights. It was never in the plan for any of them to survive the experiment. But then again, whoever had commissioned the weapon had never intended for Lab Tech to survive, either. He wondered how many layers of double cross they would have to wade through before they ever discovered the truth.

* * *

Jin Sava sat back for a moment, lost in thought. He gave no hint whether he had been convinced of the plot, or by the humans' evidence. Reed was watching him carefully, alert for any sudden movements that would indicate danger for the ship. The only outward sign of Jin Sava's inner thoughts was a rhythmic tapping of his right forefinger on the surface of the table. Finally, he folded his hands and spoke. "Captain Archer, your evidence is compelling. I would not myself have ever believed that such a thing could happen on The World, but these are troubled times. I will return to my ship to verify the information you've given me. I warn you, do not attempt to go to warp. I will not hesitate to destroy this ship if it appears that you are deceiving me."

Reed bristled. "Deceiving you? The People have done nothing but lie, deceive, and obstruct since the moment we came into orbit of The World. Geren Liaison told us that_ you_ were not to be trusted, that you were working against Darala whenever you could. He let us believe that you yourself were involved in this conspiracy along with your cousin. We've told you the truth, and it's long past time for The People to finally return the favor!"

"Lieutenant," Archer interrupted mildly, "that's enough." The captain took a step forward to stand under the recessed fluorescent light. "Jin Sava, there is no reason for you_ not_ to believe us. You have the lab data, the interviews. We're running out of time here. Whoever has that bio-weapon also has at least two days' head start on us, at warp. If they release that virus, millions of people could die, both Carah Shon and human. We don't want to see this unleashed on your world or ours. So consult your records, review the data, conjure your ancestors – I don't_ care_ – do whatever verifying you need to do, but just do it fast."

Jin Sava stood up calmly, towering over everyone else in the room. "You'll have my response within one hour-unit." Then he pressed a raised round spot that looked like a mosquito bite on the inside flesh of his lower arm, and he and Shevon Oreevi disappeared in a silent flash of light.

"Commander T'Pol to Stackhouse. Scan the ship for Carah Shon life signs."

There was a pause before Stackhouse replied, "_None aboard, sir_."

"Thank you, Ensign." T'Pol raised an eyebrow as she closed the comm. connection. "Impressive technology. I hadn't realized their transporter was so advanced."

"_More_ deception, what a shock," Reed grumbled.

"He's showing off," Archer added. "He wants us to know how out-matched we are, with the three ships out there and everything. He's hoping this will keep us guessing about just how far ahead of us The People are, and that will keep us in line." He shook his head and began to cross the room toward the exit. "Has_ anyone_ told us the whole truth since we've been here?"

Archer was almost to the door when Lab Tech spoke. The avatar was still in place, but the voice had taken on a lighter accent, sounding slightly more human somehow. _Jonathanarcher_, it said. Archer froze. Lab Tech had never called him by any name before – and he refused to think of it as anything but "Lab Tech." The avatar smiled slightly, again, using more of a human aspect than Carah Shon. _I will be disposed of_? Archer fought to keep his mind anchored in the present, not spiraling back to those endless hours he'd spent shackled and waiting in the lab. _I saved your life, Jonathanarcher_, Lab Tech went on, _you will dispose of me_?

Archer drew himself up. "And I saved your life as well, as did my crew. I don't owe you anything."

Lab Tech's smile grew more lopsided, almost cynical. For a moment, Archer thought that the avatar's eyes had taken on a greener tinge, its jaw growing more square in shape. _I spared your Vulcan and your human. I helped them escape. I gave your doctor-creature the rest of the cure. And I ask again, you will dispose of me now_?

It was a fair question. Lab Tech had committed an assault (at the_ very_ least) on citizens of Earth and Vulcan. But it had happened on a world that no longer existed, and which had been uninhabited anyway. The nearest Starfleet ship was probably at least thirty light years away, and_ Columbia_ already had its hands full with its mission of trying to keep the Earth cargo ships free from Romulan attack. Any other ship would take months to travel out this far, and_ Enterprise_ had no plans to return to Earth any time soon. The Vulcans could claim jurisdiction because of T'Pol, he supposed, but he had no idea if they even_ had_ a penal system there. He didn't think he'd be able to testify about what had happened to him in front of those blankly judgmental faces anyway.

And he'd be damned if he'd turn Lab Tech over to The People's system of "justice." They'd already seen that in action, more or less, and he wasn't sure if it consisted of anything more than lies and cover-ups, especially if it turned out that Darala was involved at all. He opened his mouth to give a non-answer when he noticed what Lab Tech was doing. Before he could stop himself, he slammed his hand down hard on top of the translator box. The avatar flickered once and disappeared, leaving Lab Tech in its usual form. The security guard had drawn her pistol and had Lab Tech in her sights within a second.

"Do that again, and I_ will_ dispose of you. _Right out the airlock_." Without another word, he stormed out of the room. Surprised and a little mystified, Reed and T'Pol followed after a moment, and found the captain leaning with his arm bent and braced against the opposite bulkhead, drawing deep breaths.

"Sir?" Reed asked, almost tentatively. T'Pol let her hand hover in the air between them.

"I'm okay," Archer muttered after a few seconds.

Reed decided to concentrate on business. "It has a point, sir. Any idea what we're going to do with it?"

Archer closed his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the disturbing images that were overwhelming him. He cleared his throat. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Malcolm. First things first."

"Aye, sir." The lieutenant changed the subject as the three officers headed toward the turbo lift. "You know, sir, it might not be a bad idea to have_ you_ fitted with one of those subdermal transporter devices, like Jin Sava has. Could come in handy."

"They figure out that pesky "dying of blood poisoning from nuclear battery" problem yet?" Archer half-joked, appreciating the lieutenant giving him the opportunity to pull himself together. "What's the projected survival rate nowadays? Two years?"

"I believe it's up to thirty-eight months," T'Pol put in. "But Starfleet Research and Development appears to be making progress, Captain."

Archer gave his first real laugh in almost two weeks. "Yeah, that's nice. I think I'll pass." He felt his smile fade, though, as he took one last look over his shoulder toward the observation room, trying to shake the memory of Lab Tech's avatar slowly, subtly transforming itself into the image of his father, Henry.


	17. Diplomacy and Deception

**Chapter Seventeen - Diplomacy and Deception**

It had been an hour and seventeen minutes, and still no word from Jin Sava. The good news was that the three heavy cruisers looming outside Enterprise's porthole had not fired on her. The bad news was that the silence grew more ominous with each passing second. Jin Sava had taken Shevon Oreevi with him in his showy shower of light, which meant that there was no particular reason for the Carah Shon L'os not to launch whatever weapons they carried and disintegrate the starship. Not that Archer would ever have held the diplomatic aide hostage, but he was uncomfortably aware that he currently held no bargaining chips. Except the serum to counteract the virus, or at least a close enough version of it, which would only matter if Jin Sava believed the evidence he'd been given.

He rested his elbows on his tiny table and put his face in his hands. God, he was tired, and tired of The People. And he had never been more aware of how tiny his ship was, and how far away from Earth - and reinforcements - they were. Even if they sent an emergency signal, it would be weeks before the nearest, fastest ship found their space dust.

The door chime interrupted his anxious thoughts. "Come," he called.

T'Pol stepped in, the Vulcan looking crisp and professional as always, back in her powder-blue personal uniform. The uncontrollable tingle of desire he had felt since his days on The World had gradually faded away, leaving Archer fully in control of his libido (he hoped), but the memory of Lab Tech's attempted seduction lingered. He stood up awkwardly; the table was wedged in a corner on the far side of the Ready Room door, and he always found it a challenge to bring himself to his full height without knocking his head on the ceiling. "You look like you have good news," he remarked hopefully.

The Vulcan gave him a steady stare, clearly debating whether to point out that his comment made absolutely no sense where she was concerned. Discretion won out, as she gestured with the padd she held in her hand. "Dr. Phlox and I believe that we have finalized the formula for the anti-virus, within the parameters of safety."

Archer sifted through that statement. "You have the cure?" he asked.

"Yes." Her _didn't I just say that? _tone came out admirably muted.

Well, that was one burden relieved. "Will it be effective for both humans and The People? I don't want this thing traveling across half the galaxy and causing an epidemic on Earth."

"It is likely that it would be a _pandemic, _Captain - epidemics are geographically localized. This strain is virulent enough to spread across continents and decimate diverse populations within a matter of days."

The captain frowned, wishing, not for the first time, that T'Pol were just a little less precise in her explanations. Knowing more didn't necessarily make him feel better. He took a half a step forward, all he could manage in the cramped space, really, since T'Pol had stopped just inside the hatch. "Excuse me," he apologized, pressing himself against the bulkhead in order to squeeze by her. She stood her ground with an odd expression, almost as if she were testing him. He managed to move to the middle of the room without so much as brushing her sleeve, and ducked underneath the ceiling support beam. "How hard will it be to synthesize the serum, do you think?"

She studied him for a moment. "We're in the process of doing that now. We should have at least five hundred thousand full-strength doses within the next six hours."

"Good job," Archer said, "I know you and Phlox have been working 'round the clock to get this done. When this is over. . . , " he paused and then shrugged. Recommending a field award or approving an extended off-duty period seemed trivial and insulting, considering that the two of them had discovered the means to save two worlds, maybe more.

T'Pol held out the padd. "Phlox and I have created some computer simulations, modeling how the virus might spread depending on how and where it's released. I have also modified the disaster protocols we used on the Valakian homeworld, in case they are needed."

Archer took half a step toward her and accepted the handheld device. Studying the data, he felt his blood run cold. The Denobulan doctor theorized that the virus was water-borne, not airborne, and so the computer simulation assumed that it would be released into the water supply of a major city. At twelve hours, there would be two hundred thousand people affected; at twenty-four hours, three-quarters of a million. By the end of the second day, Phlox estimated, nearly a million Carah Shon would be dead if left untreated. Archer turned briefly to put the padd down on the desk behind him. "We can't wait much longer for Jin Sava to make up his mind," he muttered. He took a deep breath; his worrying about Jin Sava's state of mind wouldn't make the time go by any more slowly, or cause an answer to appear any more quickly. Besides, there were other things to be concerned about. "With everything that's been going on, I haven't had a chance to ask you: how is Jamey doing?"

T'Pol's intense expression grew slightly graver. "The prototype anti-virus seems to be working; there is little trace of the virus in Mr. Egawa's system." Archer's relief was extinguished by her next words. "But he does not seem to be regaining his strength. When I left Sickbay just now, Dr. Phlox had put him on supplemental oxygen."

Archer felt a cold ball of dread form in his stomach. Of all the scenarios that had kept him going, the idea of Jamey recovering was paramount. Given the right information, Phlox could cure a rainy day - maybe this was one last sabotage perpetrated by Lab Tech. "Is there something Lab Tech has been hiding? Maybe it wasn't completely forthcoming about the formula . . ."

"Dr. Phlox is doing everything he can," T'Pol said gently, trying her Vulcan best to reassure him. He turned away and balled his fist, as if intending to hit something. Then he seemed to catch hold of himself and tapped the top of his desk twice with his fingertips. "Okay," he said, more calmly, "okay."

He seemed to gauge the distance between them, and moved to step around her. T'Pol reached out and placed her hand gently on his arm, stopping him. She touched him on purpose so rarely that each time was an event. He stepped back. To his shock, she took a step forward and reached out again. He put more distance between them, bumping up against the desk, which blocked his retreat. For a moment, he panicked. _Was this T'Pol, or just another of Lab Tech's apparitions? How could it have evaded Security and made its way to the Bridge, to his Ready Room? Hadn't anybody noticed?_ He felt heat invade his face, bile rise in his throat. He leaned forward, swallowing the nausea.

"Captain," it said, its voice sounding just like T'Pol's, measured and even, with just a touch of concern. "Captain, are you all right?"

He wanted to smash its head in for having the gall to ask him that. No, he wasn't fucking _all right; _this alien had seen to that. Before he knew what he was doing, he had straightened up and -

His powerful right cross was arrested, stopped cold by T'Pol's even stronger hand. He blinked, and found himself staring into the implacable hazel eyes of his First Officer. His forearm trembled against her resistance; if he'd connected, he might have damaged her face, and would certainly have broken several bones in his hand. She held his fist immobile for another moment, betraying no effort at all, until she was sure he had come back to himself, presumably, then slowly moved her hand to encircle his wrist. "Captain," she said again, and it was half question, half statement.

Archer dragged his arm from her grip and pushed past her abruptly, halting with his hand hovering over the door control. He couldn't go out to the Bridge in this state. At the very least, he had just tried to slug his First Officer. He knew he had to pull himself together, but hadn't the faintest clue how to go about doing that. Once again, he felt her hand on his shoulder. Once again he yanked himself out from under her grasp.

"Why won't you let me touch you?" she inquired with mild curiosity, her head cocked to the left slightly, as if engaged in a scientific query.

"You're a Vulcan, you don't touch people," he responded sharply.

"You're a human, you don't mind being touched." She studied him for a moment. "Have I done something wrong, Captain?" He noticed that she didn't ask him why he'd felt the need to punch her; it was as if she'd dismissed the action as being so out of character for him that it didn't warrant comment or reaction. Sometimes he loved her Vulcan equanimity.

He walked past her, giving her as wide berth as he possibly could, and stood before the large oval porthole, looking out at the stationary stars. He thought about lying to her, but she'd know, and that wasn't the type of person he was anyway. Of the many odd, unaccountable elements of this friendship between them, trust was the oldest and most cherished. Without turning to her, he began in a low voice, "That trick that Lab Tech does, using an avatar to communicate."

It wasn't precisely a question, but she replied as if it were. "Yes."

"It's . . . " he shook his head once, "it's very real. To the touch. Warm, like flesh, soft under your hand." He stared at his own hands, palms up and fingers spread slightly, as if not quite certain that they belonged to him.

T'Pol waited, her patience almost limitless. She did not fidget.

"It appeared to me when we were still in that facility," he went on quietly. "Before you and Egawa escaped." Straightening his back, he turned to her, and fixed his gaze on her left shoulder. He didn't want to watch her try to control her face as he told her this. "But it appeared to me as you. It pretended to be you and lied to me about translating a message from our captors. It was inside my head, and it knew that I would trust what you said, that I would follow your recommendations. It . . . wanted 'reproductive matter,' it said, and it was willing to set you and Egawa free in exchange for it. I guess I resisted, so then it tried to seduce me to get what it wanted."

T'Pol didn't say anything for a moment. He wondered if her literal mind was even capable of reading between the broad lines he had drawn. He didn't think he could make himself spell it out any more graphically than that. Finally, she murmured, "Did it succeed?"

"It very nearly did. But there were enough inconsistencies about it that I eventually caught on. _Eventually_," he repeated bitterly. He raised his eyebrows, still not looking her in the eye, and continued, "In the end, it had to get what it wanted the old-fashioned way."

She didn't understand that figure of speech; he could tell by the way her expression did not change. She repeated, "The old-fashioned way," in the same blank way she would probe the meaning of some country-boy imagery Trip would bust out just for the game of making her ask.

Archer sighed. He wished she would, just once, connect the dots on her own. _You're not being fair,_ his rational mind protested. _You yourself can barely fathom it, and it happened to you._ "There was a chair, some restraints, and . . . well, you know how the body of a human male works, T'Pol." He waited.

A human would have reacted, drawn a sudden, startled breath as the puzzle completed itself, perhaps blushed in horrified embarrassment on behalf of both of them. But T'Pol was a Vulcan; moreover, she was a scientist, with a scientist's imagination. A tiny flicker of something unnamable passed across her features, but other than that, there was not a twitch, not a blink. "This was done against your will," she stated - again, not a question.

It would have been so easy to nod slightly, no words necessary, to let her believe that there had been force and coercion. But that would only be half of the truth, if that, and in all the time they had known each other, he had never been anything less than honest with her. "I agreed," he said softly. "I was given the choice - cooperate, or you and Egawa would be . . . _disposed of_." He intentionally used the vocabulary favored by Lab Tech. It kept the hatred hot and active inside him like a volcano. "That, in exchange for an escape route and a pod with a beacon." His lips twisted. "At least you can't say I came cheap." He knew she wouldn't get the terrible, sad little joke. "It was supposed to save your lives," he whispered. "That was the whole point. It was supposed to save Egawa's life."

"_Bridge to Captain Archer,"_ Hoshi said through the comm.

Archer took a deep, steadying breath. "Archer."

"_Sir, we're getting a transmission from the _Ranger_. It's Jin Sava_."

Archer traded glances with T'Pol. She parted her lips as if to say something, but he cut her off. "Get Malcolm up here on the double."

"_Yes, sir_."

Jin Sava's severe features appeared on the view screen. He was seated at a table or desk, with Shevon Oreevi located conspicuously behind his right shoulder. Archer decided to stand just in front of his command chair.

The alien began without pleasantries. "I have reviewed the data you gave me, Captain Archer. These are serious accusations that you have made against People of the World. I have spent a great deal of time studying your reports." Archer waited. "I have also spent time researching _you_, Captain. You have a great deal to explain."

* * *

Jin Sava transported back to Enterprise, and re-settled himself in the humid observation deck. He wasted no time with preliminaries. "You asked, Captain Archer, 'Why humans?' I will tell you. Approximately a year ago, by your measure, The People were contacted by a species we had, in the past, had some limited trade with. They are a secretive people, not precisely allies, and most of our communications have been by subspace. We know them as 'The People of the Bird.'"

Archer traded a significant look with Reed. Arat Atanoma had used that same term during his interrogation. "Go on," he said.

"They had much information about humans, and they strongly warned us _against_ contact with you. They said that you were making your way across the galaxy, conquering worlds through stealth and promises. The People of the Red Sun," Jin Sava sent a meaningful glance toward T'Pol, "were the first to fall. The humans tried to take some of their outer colonies, and when that did not work, they worked from within to destabilize and destroy the Red Sun government."

"That is untrue," T'Pol said.

Jin Sava went on, ignoring her. "The blue Ice People also relinquished significant strategic territories, and were forced to trade with their old enemies. Both of these species, the Bird-People said, had been major powers in their sectors. Now the humans – Terrans – hold all the power." The alien paused almost expectantly, but Archer made no protest. He knew that the more he explained the situations behind the Vulcan-Andorian cease fire, or the change in philosophy that had rippled through Vulcan society as a result of the discovery of the Kir'Shara, the less he would be believed. "They said that the humans would talk of joining their confederation, a coalition of worlds. But it was all a ploy to consolidate might and wealth solely under human control."

Archer folded his hands on the table, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

"Only the Warrior Empire resisted," the Carah Shon L'os said, watching Archer's every move closely. "And the humans retaliated by developing a mutagenic virus. You were narrowly defeated when you tried to test it on an isolated colony. The Warrior People destroyed it before it could reach the atmosphere. Even so," Jin Sava continued, his eyes not missing the sharp fidget of outrage from Reed, who was standing at parade rest to the left of Archer's chair, "even these great warriors fear the Terrans. Fear _you_, Captain Archer."

"_Me_? What makes you think the Klingons are afraid of me?"

Jin Sava took a moment to absorb the fact that Archer had known exactly who the "Warrior People" were. Archer inwardly cursed at his slip-up. "These _Klingons_, as you call them, despite every opportunity, despite even an astronomical bounty on your head which remains uncollected, have not carried out the execution order against you. Out of fear."

"The _Enterprise_ is only one ship," T'Pol put in. "It is illogical that one ship would be able to stand against the Vulcans, the Andorians, _and_ the Klingons. Why would The People believe such a story?"

Archer wasn't sure it was the best strategy to point out to Jin Sava how very vulnerable and alone they were, but he trusted T'Pol's judgment.

"We were told that the Terrans conquer not by might but through diplomacy and deception. That their promises entailed treaties and trade agreements, all of which eventually benefitted them. In the name of peace, they convinced worlds to join their Coalition of Planets – all planets supposedly being equal with one another – yet, only the _Terrans_ expanded their territory, absorbing other technologies and enriching themselves. When thwarted, they undermined governments, creating or exploiting internal conflicts, then holding themselves out as peacemakers. And when that was unsuccessful, as with the 'Klingons,' they resorted to destroying colonies."

Archer forced himself to hold Jin Sava's gaze, while his mind raced. "Do you believe what these – these Bird-People have told you?"

The alien paused again, and his deliberation in all matters began to seriously get on Archer's nerves. "Not long after you made your initial contact with The World, representatives of the People of the Bird met with Darala, alone and behind closed doors, and The One conveyed the information she was given by them to the _Teryat_. They reiterated their warnings about your so-called alliances. The Council split into factions. There were those of the _Teryat_ who were immediately convinced of the truth of the matter, and they urged She Who Is to return to the isolationist ways of her fore-parents. Others rejected the information out of hand, not trusting the mysterious source. They insisted that the expansionism of this past generation was necessary to keep The People from dying out. And then there were the moderates, who counseled caution in opening up The World to humans."

"Which faction do you belong to, Jin Sava _Teryat_?" Archer asked, taking a stab at the title.

"I saw no harm in allowing you to make your overtures," Jin Sava answered serenely, "considering that The People possess more than enough weaponry to destroy your starship."

Archer couldn't sit still any longer. He rose and paced the length of the tropical observatory, unbuttoning the top of his black jersey. If Jin Sava believed them to be the threat they were made out to be by the People of the Bird – the Romulans – then there was nothing to stop him from ordering those heavy cruisers to destroy Enterprise, and wipe out her whole crew. And yet, the alien seemed strangely unperturbed by the situation.

He went with his gut. "You don't entirely believe the People of the Bird," he guessed carefully.

"I have lived long enough to suspect that there are other facts which we have not been told." He waited while Archer slid into a seat closer to the alien. "This is your opportunity to tell those facts."

Knowing that this was his only chance, Archer chose to lay out the truth. "We've dealt with them before, these . . . People of the Bird. We know them as 'Romulans.' We first encountered them early in our mission, when we inadvertently entered their territory. It was protected by cloaked mines, and one got attached to our hull and almost destroyed this ship. We didn't engage them, and only narrowly escaped. A few years ago, we encountered them again. What they told you about the Coalition of Planets was essentially true. Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites have formed an alliance, ending generations of fighting among themselves. Yes, we humans were instrumental in bringing about that alliance, but only because, being so new to space, we were the only species that each of the other three could trust."

Jin Sava gave a very slight nod of understanding. Archer went on. "Humans have only been in space for a little less than a century. We don't have the capacity or the inclination to conquer worlds or build empires. It's in Earth's best interest to pursue peace. But the Romulans tried to break up the alliance before it could really get started, by using holographic technology to provoke a war. It failed, but there have been some pretty serious skirmishes off and on for the past three years. All our intelligence indicates that they may be gearing up for a direct conflict with us, closer to our system."

"And the Warrior People?"

Archer grimaced. "I'm afraid I can't even begin to decipher the Klingon mind. Believe me, we've tried. But I guarantee that we never tried to unleash any virus on them." And the rest of that little tale would have to remain classified, per his agreement with Harris.

"Perhaps Jin Sava could read the mission logs," T'Pol suggested.

"We don't have time for that," Archer replied. He fixed his gaze on Jin Sava. "You either believe us, or you don't. I think you know who's behind this whole conspiracy. Are you going to help us stop this thing, or not?"

There was a pause as Jin Sava considered. "This 'conspiracy,' as you call it, is not new. Years ago, a small faction plotted against She Who Was, alarmed by That One's interest in out-worlders. She Who Was opened trade and invited cultural influences that were not entirely prudent. She Who _Is_," he emphasized to make sure they knew he was referring to the current Darala, "continued this trend, unwisely, in my opinion. But _Enterprise_ was greeted with enthusiasm by The People generally, and it was apparent that Darala was considering an alliance with humans, perhaps even joining this Coalition you spoke of. The old factions re-emerged, and some of us remembered the warnings we had been given about you by the People of the Bird. I learned that some of Darala's enemies intended to re-visit the plot – simply put, the Explorers would develop a non-deadly, human-derived sickness which would break out among The People, further evidence that the expansionist policy was harmful and premature. This would place Darala under enormous pressure to return The World to a more isolationist policy. To be entirely honest, Captain, I expected this attempt to fail as so many before it had. Until . . ."

Archer waited. "Until . . .?"

Jin Sava looked away briefly. "The _Sayn to yish-vaha_." Archer felt heat flood his face as he remembered what that term referred to. "Then I knew that the goal was not only to drive the humans away, not merely to discourage contact, but to destroy The One."

"Her credibility," offered T'Pol.

Nodding, Jin Sava explained. "When I saw Darala approach you, Captain, and begin the _Sayn to yish-vaha_, I knew that she was not herself. She had obviously been drugged. It is unimaginable that The One would touch an out-worlder, still less that She, or anyone else, would perform such an intimate act in public. Almost immediately, critics of The One began to spread the word that Darala had been compromised, that she no longer represented the will of The People. I knew that this was the first step of the plan.

"I contacted Arat Atanoma, because I believed that he might be able to influence her where I could not. She had long since stopped taking my counsel." Jin Sava lowered his voice slightly. "Arat was her . . . favorite." Archer simply nodded. "I had hoped that, in private, he would make her see her mistake before her enemies took action."

Reed, who had listened silently until this point, observed quietly, "Instead, he joined them."

"I never thought he would betray The One," Jin Sava protested, showing the first signs of agitation.

T'Pol took the next logical step. "Geren and Fenree didn't want a policy change. They wanted the virus to be devastating to The People, so that Darala would be driven completely and irrevocably from power. It would take a catastrophe to do this." She picked up the padd and quickly accessed the data she and Phlox had extrapolated. "A pandemic such as this would constitute a catastrophe, would it not?"

Jin Sava's changing coloring betrayed his shock at the numbers reflected on the padd. "This is monstrous," he spat.

Archer looked out at the stars through the wide observation porthole, a nagging thought tugging at him. This was no ordinary _coup d'etat_, he was sure of it. It was too planned-out, too vicious, too . . . permanent. He turned around slowly. "T'Pol, didn't you say that the Vya that Lab Tech used were genetically related to Darala?" At her nod, he felt the pieces come together. "She's the first victim," he said with certainty. "This is a silver bullet for Darala, specifically. They're planning on assassinating her, and covering it up by releasing the virus generally into the population. They won't just be ensuring that The People return to an isolationist policy –" He went cold and stopped.

"If they succeed in convincing The People that humans are to blame, given what they _think_ they know about humans, they'll end up going to war," Reed finished for him. "The Romulans are going to let the People do their dirty work for them."

Archer rose slowly. "We can't do this alone, Jin Sava," he said urgently. "This isn't about trade, or an alliance of planets. We have to work together – to save both our worlds. All I want to know is, whose side are you on?"

Jin Sava met the captain's eyes. "Darala and I have had our disagreements, both publicly and privately. I have found her to be impulsive, stubborn, and childish by turns. But my loyalty lies – as always – with The People, and She Who Is, my sovereign. I will do anything and everything to see that this plot fails. You have my full cooperation and support, Captain Archer."

That would do, Archer thought, at least for the moment. Thirty seconds later, Hoshi commed the captain from the Bridge.

"_Sir_," she said, "_I think I've located Geren Liaison. I've isolated the origin point of those earlier transmissions. I'm trying to tap into the satellite array to get a picture of the structure now._"

"You are spying?" Jin Sava did not try to hide his displeasure.

Archer flicked a look in the alien's general direction without bothering to respond. To Hoshi, he said, "Any sign of an outbreak?"

"_Nothing so far, sir. I'm monitoring the official emergency channels. It's likely that any reports will show up there first_."

"Let me know when you've got something, Ensign," Archer said, and stabbed the button. He glanced at Jin Sava. "The challenge will be getting in orbit of The World. We didn't leave on very good terms, I'm afraid."

Jin Sava nodded. "We can transmit that we have taken your ship into custody. That ruse should work nicely."

"Right, can't go in just telling the truth, now can we?" Reed muttered.

"I'd prefer to leave _Enterprise_ out of firing range," Archer cut in, shooting Reed a quelling look. "We'll take a shuttlepod down. We need to talk to Darala now, before it's too late."

Reed made a doubtful face. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I would not recommend using the shuttlepod. We don't know who is controlling things down there. If it's Geren or Fenree, or anyone in league with them, they'd probably shoot us down as soon as we showed up on their scans." He paused. "I suggest transporting, sir."

Archer couldn't hide the look of dread. "We'd never get close enough," he said.

Reed shot a glance toward Jin Sava. "But his ship can. What we do have is the element of surprise, Captain," he went on, ticking his points off on his fingers. "Geren thinks you're dead. As far as they're concerned, all the evidence of the plot - Lab Tech and all of the other scientists, the facility - disappeared with that planetoid. They've eliminated all of their co-conspirators. They probably think they're home free."

"They also have a significant head-start," T'Pol added. "We have to get to Darala before they do."

Archer paced the length of the room and back. He had no illusions that Jin Sava would do whatever was in the interests of The People, whether those actions coincided with _Enterprise_'s agenda or not. If there was anything he could count on when dealing with the Carah Shon L'os, and by extension, with the Explorers, it was that they could only be trusted when it was convenient for them. The idea of placing his crew in the hands of this alien politician churned his stomach.

On the other hand, if _Enterprise_ tried to enter the Carah Shon orbit or airspace without permission of whoever was in charge, he'd have a firefight on his hands, at the very least. He might even provoke the genocide he was trying to prevent. And this bio-weapon had the capacity to devastate Earth to an even greater degree than the Xindi probe had. He locked eyes with T'Pol, giving her a chance to tell him he was crazy for even considering the plan. She regarded him steadily, saying nothing. He took that as a sign that she saw no better way at the moment, either. Finally, he took a deep breath. "T'Pol, you and I need to go fill Trip in. Malcolm, as soon as Hoshi pinpoints the location, please escort Jin Sava to the transporter. We'll meet you there." He had no intention of letting Jin Sava out of their sight. At the moment, they may or may not have the same goals in mind. He nodded to Reed, then gestured for T'Pol to precede him from the room, all the while furiously trying to come up with an alternate plan.

Where The People were concerned, trust only went so far.


	18. With A Nod To Poe

**Chapter Eighteen - With A Nod To Poe**

Trip made a minor adjustment to the communicator, then flipped it shut and handed it to the captain. "Okay, all the coordinates are programmed in; you should be able to find your way around with no problem."

Archer zipped the device into the sleeve pocket of his tan hot-weather fatigues. They were made for desert heat, not extreme humidity, but he figured the material's blend would be much cooler than the standard-issue blue jumpsuit and black jersey. He looked past Trip, who was studying the schematic displayed on the Situation Console, to where T'Pol and Hoshi were standing, heads bent, next to the communications station. "We almost ready?"

Trip glanced up, hearing the impatience and tension in the captain's voice. Archer had been more than a little on edge lately, but the commander supposed it was rational for the captain to feel anxious over revisiting the scene of his own kidnapping. Before he could answer, T'Pol straightened and nodded approval to Hoshi, then strode unhurriedly across the Bridge and into the Situation Room. Trip wondered for a second what the range of her Vulcan hearing really was.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, Captain," she said, sounding matter-of-fact. "Ensign Sato has made some final adjustments to the ship to ship relay. The _Ran__ger_'s comm. system is not entirely compatible with ours. However, she will now be able to monitor all of the comm. traffic between the _Ranger_ and The World. We should be ready to proceed in approximately twenty-two minutes."

"You sure you don't want to take a MACO with you this time, Captain?" Trip asked, trying not to sound worried. "I feel like we just barely got you back in one piece before."

"If I need the cavalry, Trip, I'll call for it, I promise. Malcolm and I will be fine. T'Pol, is the shuttlepod ready?"

"Yes, sir. We have the coordinates and we'll be waiting for your signal."

The captain nodded shortly, then turned to Trip. "Listen. I don't know how long it'll take to find Geren or Fenree or both, so don't jump the gun. The most important thing is, don't let any ships leave orbit. Commander," he continued, spacing his words evenly so there could be no misunderstanding, "I am authorizing you to use whatever force is necessary and appropriate to keep any ships from leaving orbit of The World. If they _do_ get by you, don't pursue them. Set a course directly for Earth at maximum speed."

"But we'll be able to home in on your communicator signal –" Trip began.

"You can assume two things if they send a ship out of orbit. One is, I'm dead. Don't come back for me. The other is, they're gonna head for Earth because that's the only thing they _can _do, release this virus on humanity and hope for reinforcements from the Romulans. You head back to Earth, as close to Warp 5 as you can for as long as you can, until you smell smoke coming from that engine. _Enterprise_ is the only thing that can head off a worldwide pandemic."

Unhappy at the prospect of abandoning his commanding officer, Trip looked for a moment as if he would challenge his marching orders. Then he let his shoulders slump and answered firmly, "Aye, sir."

"T'Pol," Archer said, turning toward her slightly, "it'll be up to you and me to make sure it doesn't get that far." He grimaced. "Let's just hope that after all this, The People can still recognize the truth when they hear it." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, rolling his neck until his taut joints popped.

Trip eyed the captain from head to toe. He recognized all the signs: the stiff bearing, the clipped I'm-not-going-to-argue-the-point tone, the rough edge of impatience in his voice. The man was exhausted, the gravity of the situation providing the only momentum to keep him moving. Trip leaned forward, keeping his head bowed and his voice quiet, and asked, "How're you holding up Cap'n?"

A ghost of Archer's lopsided smile appeared. "With spit and baling wire, I think . . . ," he replied. Poking Trip's arm gently with his index finger, he added, mock-severely, "You take care of this ship, Commander. I don't want to come back and have to kick your ass."

Trip felt rather than saw T'Pol's eyebrow go up, indicating that she found this informal transfer of command quite odd, even for these two humans. Oh, well, that'd be one of those "guy things" that she wouldn't ever understand, he supposed. "Aye, sir. I'll give her back to you in one piece, maybe take her for a wax and shine while you're gone." Archer held his gaze for a moment, his expression a mix of trust and concern. It was never easy for Archer to leave _Enterprise_ in anyone's hands, so Trip didn't take the captain's reluctance personally.

"_Phlox to Captain Archer_."

Archer rolled his eyes with dramatic resignation as he pressed the white button with his thumb. "Archer here."

Phlox's voice was even. "_Would you come down to Sickbay, Captain? I need to see you right away_."

Trip shrugged in sympathy, picturing more injections, or perhaps one more blood test before the captain could get this show on the road. "We've got some time before we're ready for transport, sir. I'll just go on ahead and brief Malcolm." He tried his best not to sound as though he were issuing orders to his commanding officer.

Archer seemed to take it all in stride, though; he nodded and took off toward the lift. "I'll meet you at the transporter when Phlox is done with me," he said.

* * *

But Phlox had no interest in running tests or drawing blood. When the captain strode through the doors, the doctor was standing in the middle of the large white room, looking devastated. It was not the demeanor of a scientist who had just had a breakthrough. His expression caused Archer to slow down uncertainly.

"Captain." Suddenly Archer recognized the look on Phlox's face. He'd seen it at least twice before. It was the same expression he'd had when it had become apparent that Sim would not live out his full life span. It was the countenance he'd worn when confirming that Baby Elizabeth could not be saved. It was defeat.

"Doctor?" Archer prodded, his voice soft.

"Captain," Phlox began again, "I'm afraid we. . . we've lost Crewman Egawa."

Archer went cold, all the way down to his fingertips. He uttered the first thing that came to mind, idiotic as it was. "But I was just _talking_ to him . . ." His eyes traveled involuntarily to the cubicle where he'd sat chatting with Jamey not six hours before. The white curtain was drawn. "What happened," he asked numbly.

"Heart failure." Archer shot the doctor an incredulous look. The ensign had been only twenty-seven years old and, prior to the virus, in excellent physical shape. Phlox paused, obviously trying to simplify the complex workings of the human body, to give the captain only the basics to comprehend. "The body's immune system is designed to recognize foreign agents and destroy them," he said finally. "When infection is detected by the human body, your immune system, called T-cells, set out to attack it. Some viruses, like this one, attach themselves to the T-cells, becoming, in effect, hitchhikers into the system. When those T-cells traveled to Crewman Egawa's heart to fight off the infection, the virus went along for the ride. And once in the heart, the virus stimulated the immune system to attack the heart muscle." Phlox gave his characteristic gesture of distress, half shrug, half twitch. "I treated the ensign's symptoms, but I neglected to take it that one step further."

Archer moved a few steps closer to the computer monitor showing the progress of the invasive, deadly virus in Egawa's body. For a long time, the only thing that registered in his mind was that the monitor was silent.

"I was so focused on eradicating the virus, I missed the secondary condition," Phlox went on miserably. "By the time I realized what was happening, the heart muscle had been too badly damaged. It was too late. He went into cardiac arrest and I . . . couldn't bring him back."

Archer walked the four paces back to stand in front of the doctor. Seeing tears glitter in the doctor's eyes, Archer could only murmur, "I know you did everything you could, Doctor. This was an engineered virus. I think it's safe to say that it was . . . designed to be fatal." He walked slowly to the curtained cubicle and drew back the drape. Phlox had not yet covered the patient's face. Jamey Egawa appeared to be peacefully sleeping, if not dreaming, his head turned slightly on the pillow. _Yet another letter to yet another mother_, Archer thought bitterly, letting the curtain, and his shoulders, drop. Without turning around, he asked, "Where's Lab Tech?"

"Captain," Phlox started.

"Where is Lab Tech, Doctor?" Archer's voice was ominously low.

The Denobulan hung his head. "T'Pol had him taken back to the Brig as soon as we were done testing the anti-virus."

Archer raised his chin and nodded once. "If you have to modify those plague protocols, you'll have to do it in the next half hour or so," he said, and headed for the door. "T'Pol will need the added information before she leaves." Stopping with his hand hovering over the button, he added with as much conviction as he could muster, "This was not your fault, Phlox." Then he pressed the door control and stepped through.

Reed and Jin Sava were already waiting in the transporter area when Archer arrived there a few minutes later. Jin Sava looked impatient; Reed had retreated behind his blank, impenetrable façade. Archer could tell that Phlox had already spoken with the lieutenant, who had been Egawa's immediate supervisor in the Security section, and the one who had hand-chosen him for this mission. "Malcolm," Archer said soberly, "I'm sorry."

It took a moment for Reed to reply. Archer watched the Tactical Officer swallow two or three times before choking out, "Yes, _sir_." Reed's iron control angered Archer further. He had forced himself to leave Lab Tech to T'Pol's supervision, to stick with the plan already in motion, but all he wanted to do right now – for Egawa, for Reed – was to storm back into the Brig and squeeze the life out of the creature with his bare hands. He clenched his fists and stepped up onto the transporter platform, nodding curtly to Trip, stationed behind, but not touching, the controls. Jin Sava pulled up his sleeve in preparation for signaling the _Ranger_ to transport. "Ready," Archer said, which was not entirely true, and watched the room flash away.

The gravity on the _Ranger _was slightly less than Earth's sea level, perhaps point nine gee. The decrease in mass almost made up for the stiflingly hot atmosphere, which was intensified by the characteristic staleness of recycled spaceship air. The Carah Shon L'os may have been years ahead of humans technologically, but they wouldn't have been able to prove it to Archer by the state of their transporter. Although almost instantaneous, it had been the worst transporter experience Archer had ever had, including that very first time, seven years ago, when he'd been disassembled at a dead run, while being shot in the back by a Suliban.

He blinked the spots away from his vision and resisted the urge to check his various parts. "You okay, Malcolm?" he asked his slightly green officer.

"Aye, sir," Reed managed, looking sour. "I'm glad I skipped lunch, though." Archer pushed the distressing thought of food away and tried to focus on the slightly built Carah Shon woman whom Jin Sava was introducing as the _Ranger_'s captain. She appraised the two of them top to bottom, then pivoted and indicated that they should follow, and quickly. They headed out of the brightly lit room behind Jin Sava, who showed no interest at all in the comfort of his guests.

The ship, or at least the bright white corridors, seemed enormous. There was no sign of anyone. Either the vessel ran with a skeleton crew, and the many empty stations they passed were redundant, or the crew had been given orders to remain out of sight. _God forbid we get any ideas about the strength of your fleet, _Archer grumped silently.

Jin Sava stashed the two humans in a small room. "We should be approaching The World in three . . . hours. Do not attempt to communicate with your ship, Captain. I don't want anyone to pick up the signal. Your communications officer will be able to monitor our contact when we get closer." He gestured toward the pitcher of clear liquid on a small table, next to what looked like a loaf of dense bread. "Please refresh yourselves." The alien left, closing the door firmly behind him.

After a few moments of prowling the room and peering out of the one tiny oblong porthole at the unfamiliar stars, Archer realized that his stomach had settled back to normal, so he wandered over and picked up a piece of the bread. It was sweet, with a texture and taste very much like his grandmother's pound cake recipe. "Try some, Malcolm," he suggested around a mouthful of crumbs. "It's not bad."

Reed eyed him warily. Neither of them had seen anyone scan the food, and they were not wearing bio-badges. "You think that's safe to eat, sir?"

"Out of everything that's happened in the past week or two," Archer replied absently, taking another bite, "I'm pretty sure death by pound cake wouldn't be anywhere near the worst thing." He wandered back to the porthole, recognizing the oddly detached, deceptively calm feeling. Things were in motion now, and very little of it was under his control. The pieces would fit, or they wouldn't. They'd succeed, or not. All he could do was to try not to make any more mistakes, and to try to keep his wits about him. In a few hours, they'd have a chance to save the world.

Right now, he'd have another piece of cake.

* * *

Trip was trying not to hover, he really was. The problem was that the Bridge was only so big, and it was, essentially, just a circle. Every time he paced around the command chair, he was reminded that he'd never gotten around to sending Travis off-duty, nor had he asked Archer to do so. He felt guilty just looking at the helmsman, who had not complained even once. Trip couldn't replace him now; they were traveling at half impulse on approach toward The World with no exterior running lights and with weapons powered down, surrounded on three sides by the Carah Shon heavy cruisers. Nobody else had Travis' skill or feather-light touch. By matching the _Ranger'_s speed, Trip hoped, _Enterprise _would appear as some weird sensor shadow, easily dismissed, at least long enough to put the second part of the plan into motion. All they had to do was get close enough to launch a shuttlepod without being detected . . .

He considered calling down to check once again on T'Pol's status, but decided that even her Vulcan patience had its limits. Instead, he rounded toward Communications. As he drew a breath, Hoshi forestalled his question. "Got nothing yet, sir." He must have looked abashed, because she added kindly, "But we're just coming into comm. range now, so we should be hearing something soon." He strolled back to the command chair and sat down.

A little less than half an hour passed before Hoshi turned in her seat, pressing a finger to her aural receiver. "Sir, now I'm getting all kinds of communication traffic. It sounds like they've switched to their emergency broadcast channels." Her brown eyes conveyed sadness, following Trip as he crossed the room to stand over her console. "It looks like we're too late. I'm getting reports of people becoming seriously ill, all of a sudden. The health centers are starting to get flooded with patients already."

Trip hung his head for a moment and sighed deeply. He had hoped, perhaps against all reason, that Fenree and Geren would somehow decide not to go through with their plot. "How many?"

"So far," Hoshi answered quietly, "somewhere around thirteen thousand people. Right now the outbreak seems to be concentrated just outside of the capital city."

"Any sign they've detected us?"

"No, sir."

Trip commed the Launch Bay. "Tucker to T'Pol." The Science Officer answered immediately, and Trip conveyed the information to her. "Remember, we don't know how contagious this thing is, so use universal precautions. Prepare for launch. And –" He stopped abruptly, wishing he could pull that last word back.

After an expectant pause, T'Pol prodded, "_Commander_?"

"Just . . . be as careful as you can." Trip could picture her blank face, as she considered the illogic of his request. Just as he was about to close the comm., she replied evenly, "_I will, Commander. Please do the same_."

Trip hid his smile as he walked back to the center chair.

* * *

Jin Sava led Archer and Reed back to the transporter pad, eliciting twin stifled groans of dread. "We have located Geren and Fenree." The alien's face took on a sour expression. Archer had long since given up trying to read Jin Sava's complexion-color cues; the politician took pains to keep his feelings to himself. "It appears that your theory of contaminated water is correct. Now that the virus is loose, it appears that they have chosen to isolate themselves inside the security of the Regent's Compound. It's a self-sustaining complex, and its water is filtered separately from the rest of the city."

"It's also an ideal way to get to Darala," Reed pointed out. "She'll think she's protected from the virus, that they've locked the threat outside the walls, but it's right inside there with her."

"_The Masque of the Red Death_," Archer murmured, and Reed shot him a look equal parts horrified and impressed. "How close can we get to them?"

Jin Sava manipulated the transporter controls while he spoke. "You're not supposed to be able to transport into the Regent's Palace." The control pad beeped twice. "As I am doing right now. We will materialize in the inner courtyard and make our way from there. Any closer and we might lose the 'element of surprise.'" He watched as Reed checked his phase pistol. "It is your intention to apprehend them, isn't it?"

Reed carefully replaced the pistol in its secure holster. "That's the plan, _Teryat_. However, at this point, we're dealing with two people fully capable of mass murder, and who we suspect will make an attempt on Darala's life. Once they know we're here, they will have very little left to lose."

"The pistols are set to stun," Archer added, "for the time being." He glanced at the transporter platform and sighed. "Let's get this over with, Malcolm."

The process was no easier the second time than the first. The two humans and one Carah Shon L'os re-materialized in a silent, semi-dark alcove. Archer had forgotten the sheer scale of the Palace. The ceilings soared at least ten meters above his head. He waited while his eyes adjusted to the murky darkness and his insides stopped rolling. Through far-off windows, he could hear the howling wind and driving rain. It must be sometime after midnight on The World, he guessed.

With Jin Sava in the lead and Reed behind him, they made their way cautiously down three massive corridors. They passed no one. Archer wondered to himself whether everyone was sleeping, or perhaps they had been stricken with Lab Tech's virus already. Of course, there was no way for him to know whether there were any living quarters in this area of the compound; he seemed to recall that the guest quarters he and T'Pol and Egawa (it still hurt to think of him) had occupied had been on the other side of the complex. He drew his pistol as he slinked along the walls behind Jin Sava. It made him feel slightly more prepared for what might lie ahead. He couldn't hear Reed's footsteps behind him, but could sense the Tactical Officer's reassuring presence.

Jin Sava stopped outside an unmarked door, studying the scanner he held in his hand. "Here," he said, in an almost non-existent whisper. "Geren's apartments."

Archer and Reed traded glances, each appraising the readiness of the other. At Archer's nod, Jin Sava entered a code and pushed the door inward. After the dimness of the corridor, the light inside the room was almost blinding. Once again, Archer paused to let his eyes adjust. And then he heard a familiar voice, one he had heard first while on The World and last while hiding in an air vent in a laboratory on a faraway, now disintegrated planetoid.

"It appears you are very difficult to dispose of, Captain Archer. Are all humans this resilient?" The voice sounded both smug and amused.

He blinked. Standing next to Jin Sava in the middle of the room was Obot Geren Liaison.

* * *

Trip crossed the Bridge in six long strides. The shuttlepod had just signaled that it had just landed at its pre-arranged coordinates. Ensign Stackhouse was already leaning forward over the Situation Console, tracking the bio-signs, each alien in a different way, of T'Pol, Shevon Oreevi, and Lab Tech. The one human bio-sign, pilot Ensign Hutchison, remained with the shuttlepod in case a rescue or a quick escape became necessary. Trip was not at all happy with the scarce personnel and lack of security for this part of the mission, but the captain had been firm. The fewer the people involved, the better.

Stackhouse pointed to a second set of bio-signs. "Sir, our two away teams are less than two hundred fifty meters apart. Look. I think they might be in the same building, even."

Trip bent closer, examining the schematic and tracing the familiar outline with his fingertip. "That's the Regent's Compound. All those buildings are interconnected." He looked up. "Jin Sava took the captain and Malcolm to the same place T'Pol's heading." He tapped his finger on the panel. "Our bad guys must be making their move on Darala."

"Should we warn the captain?"

Trip shook his head reluctantly. "We have to maintain radio silence, Ensign. But I want you to keep your eyes glued to those six bio-signs. Anything happens, you let me know immediately. The slightest thing – you even get a _hunch_ that something's not right, you come get me. Understood?"

Stackhouse swallowed audibly, her face pale and tense. "Y-yes, sir. I will, sir."

He didn't mean to put so much pressure on her. He could tell the kid was green and scared and nervous, and maybe a little bit over her head. He wanted to tell her to relax, that it would all be okay. But they'd already lost one crew member, and now T'Pol, Malcolm, and the captain were showing every sign of walking into a trap and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He figured he couldn't trust Lab Tech to do anything but betray them if it got the opportunity, but Shevon seemed to be on their side. Of Jin Sava's motives, he had no clue. He could only hope that at this point in time, the best interests of _Enterprise_ and of The People might intersect just enough to keep this whole thing from turning into one big disaster.


	19. Dear Kettle, Love Pot

**Chapter Nineteen - Dear Kettle, Love Pot**

T'Pol discreetly took a deep breath and prepared to start again from the beginning. Darala's body language, what she could read of it, indicated that this fourth time through the evidence would be as unconvincing and unavailing as the previous three had been. For the first time since she'd left _Enterprise_, she felt a nagging suspicion that she might fail. She considered the ramifications dispassionately. If she could not convince Darala to allow _Enterprise_, and particularly Phlox, access to the deluged and beleagured health facilities now trying to deal with the onset of the symptoms of this unknown virus, the death toll could very easily climb into the hundreds of thousands within a few days. Darala herself was in danger; judging from the intricate plans of Geren and Fenree, it was unlikely that the crew of _Enterprise_, however determined, would be able to stop them from attempting to assassinate the ruler.

Darala, however, spoiled child-woman that she was, seemed intent on wholesale rejection of every fact presented to her, no matter how compelling. T'Pol was not too proud to admit that she wished that Captain Archer or Commander Tucker had accompanied her; humans had an innate ability, in her experience, to form coherent arguments in the face of utter illogic. Indeed, Archer had proven that even the _Andorians_ could be reasoned with, after a fashion, something a hundred years of Vulcan logic had never been able to achieve. She called upon all of her diplomatic training, channeling V'Lar and Soval and every other patient Vulcan ambassador she'd ever observed. She was running out of time.

Shevon's official passwords and security codes had gotten the three of them, T'Pol, Shevon, and Lab Tech, through the warren-like back corridors of the Regent's Palace and into the hidden chamber designed to shelter The One in the event of an emergency. T'Pol had not been able to hear exactly what Shevon had told the guard posted outside - she only knew it had something to do with the supposed contagious nature of the virus that had stricken the city. Whatever the lie, and T'Pol had no doubt that deception was involved, it had been enough to gain entry into this bunker, and into the presence of The One.

Now, though, it appeared that Darala was quickly losing patience. She had progressed from surprise to confusion to, eventually, obstinacy. Her Serenity was no longer "in Repose," so the gold filigreed headpiece was missing. Rather, the blue-black hair was twisted into a many-stranded braid and laid across her right shoulder. The simple tunic and trousers she wore indicated that she had been roused from her chamber and rushed to this safe place at the first sign of danger.

She had spared barely a glance at the padd T'Pol had offered, and had fixed a steady glare on the Vulcan as she had explained the nature of the crisis. As T'Pol drew a breath to begin her explanation once more, Darala rose abruptly from her seat, saying, "Commander T'Pol, I see no reason for you to go through this again." T'Pol sank back into parade rest, listening intently as Darala approached her slowly and continued. "Captain Archer is dead, but then he is not. He is kidnapped and taken to another system, yet his ship orbits above us. You yourself stand before me, when just a few days ago, you were reported murdered and The People were accused of the crime." T'Pol didn't move a muscle. "And you expect me to believe that you, _outworlders_, are here to protect me from my own trusted advisor." She circled T'Pol slowly, a maneuver designed to unnerve and intimidate. T'Pol had seen Captain Archer do the same thing on a number of occasions. Had she not been Vulcan, she suspected, it would have been very effective.

"I will tell you, Commander, what I think. I think you are a very skilled liar. I think you have infiltrated The World, unleashed a deadly plague upon us, even after we extended our hospitality to you. I will not be deceived by this transparent attempt to transfer your guilt onto my most trusted advisors."

T'Pol took no offense at being called a liar, but, for the first time, she began to understand the human concept of 'irony.' She was reminded of a particular expression Commander Tucker liked to use on occasion: _Dear Kettle, You're black. Love, Pot._ "Serenity," she responded carefully, "Throughout the galaxy, Vulcans have a reputation for being truthful. It would be illogical for me to lie to you about this threat."

Darala blinked in amusement. "Ah, logic. Interesting. Tell me, then, what does one do with a liar when she insists that she is telling the truth?"

"One looks at the facts and makes an independent assessment," T'Pol responded evenly.

The monarch turned on her heel and strolled back to her couch. "Facts of your own making," she said, dismissively, "with no support but your own word. I have heard you out. Leave now."

T'Pol stood immobile for a moment, unable to believe the stubbornness of this woman. No human she had ever encountered even approached this level of illogic. She searched her mind for some argument that she hadn't tried yet, some way to persuade Darala that The World was about to come crashing down.

"Your Serenity," came the diffident, soft voice of Shevon Oreevi, half hidden in the shadows. "If I may speak . . .?"

After a moment, Darala nodded her assent, her expression curious.

The Liaison's aide stepped forward into the light. "I have a question for The One. What would it take for her to leave behind her world, her family, and everything she knows? What if there were no guarantee that she would ever be able to come home? What if to return would mean being labeled a traitor to The People, and, most likely, death?"

Darala didn't answer, only watched her silently. Shevon went on, her voice growing firmer and more confident. "I was willing to give up everything, Serenity, and I contacted _Enterprise_ in secret because I was convinced - I _am_ convinced - that what these humans have told you is the truth. I saw Arat's interrogations, heard his words with my own ears. Whatever he felt about you, Serenity, or felt _for_ you, he ended up betraying you. I've seen the laboratory data, and I know that the humans have lost one of their own, dead as a result of this virus." Darala drew herself up sharply, but Shevon went on, more passionately. "These humans are here to save your life, and as many of your people as they can. _Please_, Serenity, let them."

T'Pol counted one hundred fifty seven standard seconds in her head before Darala responded. During that interval, nobody moved or spoke. Even Lab Tech, who, all this time, had remained silent and still in the shadows, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of Darala's decision. As the one hundred fifty eighth second ticked by, Darala held out her hand imperiously. "I will see your data," she said, her tone incrementally less frozen than it had been before.

Acknowledging the very logical feeling of relief coursing through her, T'Pol stepped forward and offered the padd for Darala's examination.

* * *

Archer didn't know which disappointed him more: that Jin Sava had, in fact, betrayed them, or that he himself had been dumb enough not to see it coming. Why in the hell had he believed for even one minute that Jin Sava wasn't working in league with Geren? Why else would the _Ranger_ miraculously appear to intercept _Enterprise_ on her way back to Carah Shon? He should have just taken _Enterprise_ back to The World at warp, rather than trying to reason and negotiate with the Carah Shon L'os. They had given Jin Sava all the time he needed to transmit their data to Geren and Fenree, while they had stupidly waited to see whether the _Teryat_ believed them.

His mouth twisted bitterly at the thought of them earnestly explaining the existence of the conspiracy to one of the conspirators.

He suddenly felt oppressed by his surroundings, the overly bright lights and the sharp colors of Geren's quarters. Here inside the compound, the heat was _almost_ bearable, but the stresses of the past several days, along with a good heaping portion of guilt and grief, crushed down around him. The only thing keeping him from imploding, it seemed, was the reassuring presence of Reed beside him. The lieutenant seemed relaxed and vigilant, which had a calming effect of its own on the captain.

"Geren Liaison," Archer greeted mildly, "I guess I'm not sorry to disappoint you."

A subtle change in shade indicated that Geren was not immune to humor, however dark. "It appears we underestimated your crew's capabilities, Captain Archer. I must say that I am quite surprised that your crew were not so easily fooled by our decoy ship. We had expected only a cursory investigation before your ship went on its way." He inclined his head slightly. "Your sidearms, Captain. Please surrender them."

Before Archer could move, he heard a sharp intake of air from Reed. He turned his head to see a woman he didn't recognize standing next to the lieutenant, with her hand at his neck. She was taller than the lieutenant by a few centimeters, and wore a silky brown tunic and trousers. Reed's face was unnaturally pale in the bright light, and he seemed to be straining away from whatever she held in her hand.

"Malcolm?"

It was Geren who answered. "You can give me your weapons, Captain, or you can watch Ryamon inject your lieutenant with a very toxic substance. Lieutenant Reed has already seen Ryamon in action, and he could tell you how painful a death at her hands can be."

Sure enough, Archer could see a small hypodermic needle in the woman's hand, pressing against Reed's jugular. So this was Ryamon Fenree, the supposed interrogator. He had no way of knowing for sure, but he would bet just about anything that this was the other "patron" who had come to the laboratory with Geren. She had the same arrogant bearing, anyway. She had already murdered one person, Archer knew, and had clearly intended for all of the beings on that planetoid to perish when it disintegrated after being bombed; he had no doubt that she would kill Reed where he stood, without hesitation. He lowered his hand slowly to his leg and pulled the phase pistol out of its loop. He passed the weapon to Jin Sava, who handled it gingerly by its grip, then did the same with Reed's. Then he stepped back, holding his hands up, palms out in the - so far as he could tell - universal sign of compliance and surrender.

Fenree blinked a smile of satisfaction. "Good choice, Captain Archer," she said, and now he did recognize her voice.

Before Reed could step away from Fenree, Jin Sava shot him. The lieutenant spasmed, his face locked in a rictus of shock, then his body slumped and fell unaided to the floor. Archer gave a wholly inarticulate cry and threw himself down beside Reed, feeling frantically for vital signs. He could detect a faint pulse, and held his own breath as he worriedly counted Reed's respirations. Biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, he fumbled for his communicator.

"Your communicator will not work in here, Captain," Fenree informed him smugly.

He flipped it open anyway, and was rewarded with a total lack of signal. He twisted the controls for a moment without success, then closed it and slid it deliberately back into his sleeve pocket. Still, it took several deep breaths to pull himself together. Without taking his eyes of the now-unconscious lieutenant, he growled, "Why would you do that?"

Jin Sava gave an unconcerned shrug. "Three against one makes me more comfortable than three against two." There was no doubt in Archer's mind now which side Jin Sava had picked.

The Carah Shon woman glanced at Geren and Jin Sava, then gestured toward Archer. "I can kill him now, as well, unless you think he is of some use to us further?"

"This one might prove useful in extracting some last minute concessions from The One," Jin Sava put in smoothly, turning the phase pistol in Archer's direction. He looked at Geren, who had not yet torn his eyes away from the lifeless body on the floor. "I suggest we bring him with us. We can always dispose of him later."

"I . . . I agree," Geren replied hesitantly. Archer began to think that the Liaison might be getting cold feet. Or, perhaps, Fenree had always been the brains and the backbone of this operation.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to react, but Archer had learned over the years that any mistake made by his enemy could be exploited, if he were patient. These conspirators were arrogant enough to leave him alive one minute longer than necessary; they would almost certainly make more mistakes down the line. It might be enough.

A soft chime sounded from some sort of communication device positioned on the wall. Geren pounced on it almost gratefully. He spoke quietly to whoever was on the other end, his eyes darting in Fenree's direction. His expression registered surprise for an instant, before he snarled a few low words and closed the communication. "The One is in the Great Hall," he said accusingly, striding back to the center of the room.

Fenree twitched her head. "She is _supposed_ to be in the secure bunker," she fired back, as if this were Geren's fault. Archer began to think that this presented a wrinkle in whatever plan was in motion. Perhaps his opportunity would come sooner than he had hoped. The woman tucked the hypodermic back into a small pouch and slipped it into her pocket. While Geren seemed on the verge of panic, Fenree was calm and calculating. "Well, we can't delay any longer. You'll just have to be that much more convincing." She looked at Archer again, still crouched at Reed's side. "Dispose of that one."

"That would be foolish," Jin Sava observed quietly. "Assuming the virus is spreading as you planned, you still need a _kuh dvavic_." After a second, Archer's UT translated that as "scapegoat." He didn't like where this was heading. The _Teryat_ went on. "Why blame a phantom species when you can deliver the perpetrator to Darala for immediate justice? These humans are enemies of The World, isn't that right? Then present him as such, before the whole council. And when Darala is dead, everyone will know that it was you who caught the murderer. How could they deny you anything you ask?"

"His death confession will implicate us," Fenree pointed out. "Whatever he knows, he'll reveal it under the drugs, including this conversation."

Jin Sava blinked at her. "Then isn't it a shame that the confession drugs work far more quickly on humans than we might have expected? Almost instant death."

Judging from her reaction, Fenree was more than pleased with this neat little solution. She grabbed Archer by the face and yanked him upright. He felt the muzzle of the phase pistol pressing against his temple. All thought of resistance left his head; he was outmatched on every side. "Die now or die later, Captain," Fenree suggested implacably, "it's your choice." Archer stifled a groan and said nothing. Fenree seemed to take that as assent, at least for the moment. She let go of his jaw and clamped her hands around his arm, pulling him toward the door.

He barely avoided tripping over Reed's legs, and balked. "No, wait! You can't just leave him here!" Archer's protests fell on deaf ears as he was manhandled out of the apartment and into the dark corridor. He craned his neck and caught a last glimpse of Reed's limp body sprawled on the colorful floor cloth.

* * *

From her position behind a tiny hidden door, T'Pol possessed a view of almost the entire Great Hall. That such an alcove existed, completely undetectable from the other side but equipped with high-quality speakers, spoke volumes about the level of distrust between the council and The One. There was just enough room for the Vulcan and the two beings behind her. She stooped down a bit to allow them to see into the chamber as well. Most of the chairs, arranged in a three semi-circles before Darala's elaborate throne, were occupied with legislators who had nervously assembled to deal with the growing epidemic. There was little chatter among them; from time to time the councillors would check their personal information devices, following, T'Pol was sure, the progress of the virus across the region.

Several tense minutes after the last councillor found her seat, Darala's imposing figure entered the Hall, flanked by two very large, very serious looking guards. She took her place. There was no need to call the meeting to order. All eyes were pinned on The One, as if waiting for her to dictate their next move. Neither unanimity in government nor Darala's ability to lead seem to be an issue at the moment.

"As you know, we have a serious situation, " Darala intoned. "Tell the Liaison that we are ready to receive him."

From the far left of T'Pol's peripheral vision, the heavy double doors opened. Geren Obot Liaison strode in. He did not look to either side, but made his way unhurriedly between the rows of chairs toward the monarch. He bowed deeply and stood with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting to be invited to speak.

"You have information?" The ruler's voice sounded a little more clipped than usual, the only outward sign of stress.

Geren blinked several times, and pitched his voice to reach all corners of the room. "I do, Your Serenity. As you know, The People recently received the humans, the People of the Yellow Sun, into our midst. We showed them the highest honors and hospitality. You tasked me, Serenity, with the care and keeping of these visitors. While they were here, we shared with them our history, our technology, and our friendship. We expected nothing in return, except, perhaps, their diplomatic good will.

"In doing so, we chose to disregard the warnings of the People of the Bird." At this, Darala stirred impatiently. "And it is not the time now to debate those decisions," Geren added quickly, immediately backing off of any perceived criticism of The One Who Is. "But," he continued, his tone dire, "the humans had an agenda of their own, one which included a ruse designed to implicate the people in the kidnapping and murder of the captain of the Earth ship _Enterprise_, Jonathan Archer. And while we devoted our fullest resources to investigate this supposed crime and bring the perpetrators to justice, the humans unleashed on The People what can only be considered an act of war."

A murmur rippled across the room as the councillors took in this information. Darala leaned forward in her seat. "You have proof, Liaison?"

Geren paused dramatically, then turned toward the door through which he had come. "I do, Serenity. I have heard it from the lips of one of the conspirators himself. Enter!" he barked.

The doors swung open once again, and T'Pol felt a chill race through her body as the figure of Captain Archer appeared, flanked by Jin Sava and a woman she knew to be Ryamon Fenree. The captain walked under his own power, but T'Pol could read the signs of physical duress in his body language. Somehow, the plan had gone terribly wrong. Worse yet, she didn't see Lieutenant Reed. Were they holding him hostage in return for the captain's cooperation? Archer's face was unreadable, save for the look of hatred he shot Geren as he crossed the room.

Darala watched the human approach, with no indication of her earlier fascination or affection. "Go on, Liaison," she said. As the captain reached the center of the semi-circle where Geren stood, Fenree and Jin Sava forced him to his knees. Jin Sava held Reed's or Archer's phase pistol, and aimed it at the back of the captain's head. T'Pol could see a fresh bruise along his jawline, a smear of blood underneath his nose.

"The humans, along with their alien doctor, are responsible for the unknown virus now ravaging The People. It is based on their physiology, so that The People have no hope of developing a cure. They were responsible for the theft and destruction of our sacred Vya. They even invaded the personal integrity of The One herself -" At this the murmur started up again, only louder. Geren raised his voice. "Can any of us forget the spectacle we ourselves witnessed in this very chamber, the sight of the human enticing She Who Is into performing the _Sayn to yish-vaha_? My wife, Doctor Ryamon Fenree," he gestured to the woman now standing beside him, "has confirmed without any doubt remaining that The One was drugged that night."

Now the councillors were shouting, some lunging to their feet in outrage. Darala let this continue for a few moments, then raised a hand silently. Within seconds, the tumult calmed. She turned back to Geren. "I hear accusations, Liaison. What is your proof?"

That seemed to catch Geren off-guard, and he hesitated. Fenree stepped into the silence. "If I may, Serenity. My husband has shown me the data, as it became more and more difficult for him to determine whom to trust. I have examined the samples from some of the first victims of this plague, and compared it to the biological information provided by the humans during their time on The World." Fenree took a few steps toward the ruler. "I have been working diligently for the past several hours to isolate the virus, Serenity. And I am pleased to inform you that I have found a cure!" Her voice echoed triumphantly around the chamber. Some of the councillors tapped their arms politely. Reading the still-solemn room, Fenree went on, "Of course, you should be the first to benefit from this, Serenity, and then I and my colleagues will attempt to distribute this medicine and mitigate this catastrophe."

"_Teryat _Jin Sava, have you nothing to add?"

Jin Sava looked around the room for a moment. "No, Serenity."

Darala rose from her seat and approached the kneeling figure. Archer raised his head wearily to meet her gaze, then stiffened slightly. She studied Archer, blinking slowly, her head cocked a bit to the side. "Do you have anything to say in your defense, Captain?"

Archer shook his head. "They are lying to you, Darala. I think you know that already. We wanted to be your allies, that's all. We would never do something so montrous to The People. My doctor, Phlox, is the one who developed the cure for the vaccine -" He let out a muffled cry as Fenree turned and backhanded him sharply across the face.

"_Don't_ . . ." T'Pol whispered to herself, knowing that if Archer retaliated, he would likely die.

Shevon trembled behind her. "We have to do something, Commander!"

T'Pol didn't tear her eyes away from the Great Hall. "We must stick to the plan, Ms Oreevi. That is our only hope of exposing this conspiracy once and for all, and for saving Darala's life." She softened her tone just a little and added, "The captain understands this. He's doing this of his own free will, whatever the outcome."

"Darala," Fenree said, "I beg you to let me inoculate you now, before this plague reaches inside this chamber."

"She's trying to kill you, Serenity," Archer groaned as he pushed himself up from the floor. He lifted a hand to wipe blood from his lip. "That's not the cure."

Darala regarded Archer for a moment. "I think The People have listened to enough human lies, Captain Archer," she said. To Fenree and Geren, she added, "You have the appreciation of all of The People." She pushed back the sleeve of her tunic. "You may proceed."

"Perhaps you should have your personal physician administer the vaccine to you," Jin Sava suggested.

"If you have nothing to say, Jin Sava, then say nothing," Darala snapped. Fenree extracted a hypodermic needle and efficiently injected the contents into Darala's arm. T'Pol took note of the look of satisfaction that passed between Fenree and Geren.

"Long live The People," Geren said.

"Indeed," replied Jin Sava. He turned the phase pistol in Geren's direction and said, "And long live The One Who Is."

At that, Darala pushed past T'Pol and opened the hidden door. Stepping out into the Great Hall, she ordered, "Take these two into custody."

The shocked expression on Geren's face was eclipsed by his wife's. The two of them whirled to look at the person Fenree had just injected, in time to see the figure morph back into the appearance of Lab Tech. The Explorer disengaged the projection device, rubbing the area on its arm where Fenree had jabbed it. It slid the hypo from Fenree's unresisting hand and passed a small medi-scanner over it. "Virus," it said in its mechanical sounding voice.

T'Pol strode across the room quickly to check on Archer. The captain shook his head, smiling wryly. "You really have a flair for the dramatic, T'Pol. It took me a second to catch on that it was Lab Tech, not Darala. That wasn't the plan, you know."

"Circumstances dictated an adjustment," she replied mildly. She had reached out a hand to help him to his feet, when someone screamed. In the commotion that broke out, T'Pol saw Darala crumple into Jin Sava's arms. Geren lunged for the dropped phase pistol.

Some council members dived to the floor, others clamored for the nearest exits in uncontrolled panic. The rush of bodies obscured her view for a few moments. She lost sight of Archer, then spotted his blue jumpsuit bent next to the fallen figure of Darala. "T'Pol!" he called as she made her way over. The monarch was already slipping into unconsciousness, her face a mask of pain. "Get Phlox down here! She's been injected with something. It's probably lethal."

"He should be on his way to The World already," T'Pol answered. "Darala gave her permission for the medical teams to leave _Enterprise_ with the anti-virus approximately twenty-two minutes ago." T'Pol's scanner was not calibrated for Carah Shon vital signs, but what it _was_ telling her wasn't encouraging. "Where's Mr. Reed?"

"Captain!" Reed's voice obviated Archer's answer. The captain's head snapped up to locate the lieutenant, who waved with the hand holding the phase pistol. "They've escaped. This way, sir!"

Archer grabbed T'Pol's arm briefly. "Get Phlox here, now. She doesn't have much time, and neither does anyone else. No matter what, T'Pol, get that anti-virus distributed."

"Be careful, Captain," T'Pol said, but he was already gone.


	20. You Take The High Road

**Chapter Twenty - You Take The High Road**

Archer's hot weather fatigues clung uncomfortably to his skin, sticking to the crooks of his elbows and the backs of his knees. It was almost the Carah Shon dawn, when the violent rainstorm would cease lashing against the windows and the steamy, heavy air would take its place. Even inside the palatial compound, where The People themselves took refuge from the weather, the atmosphere was becoming more oppressive. Archer stopped running, his eyes fixed on the tiny display of his communicator. Reed, two steps ahead, halted as well and backtracked.

"Problem, sir?" the lieutenant asked, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.

"No, not really," Archer replied. "But look, this corridor splits off in about fifty meters, until here – " he pointed with the tip of his finger, "and then both branches give access to this exit here."

Reed squinted at the device, then pulled his scanner out of his trouser pocket. "I still have them both heading in the same direction, sir."

"Yeah, but I'm willing to bet that they'll separate and meet up again. Because, according to these coordinates, this exit leads to the shuttle launch facility." They may have been busted, but there was no way that either Geren or Fenree would plan to stay on The World one minute longer than necessary now that the virus was out. They had to have an escape plan in place, and from the interaction he'd seen between them, Archer was sure that neither would hesitate to leave the other behind.

Replacing the scanner in his pocket, Reed nodded. "They've got a pretty good head start on us, sir." He straightened up, and staggered a step.

"Malcolm, you okay?" Archer steadied him with his hand. "They didn't –"

"I'm fine, sir." Reed's upper lip was stiffly back in place almost immediately. "Getting shot is no joke, even if the pistol's set on stun." He rolled his shoulder to relieve their tension. "Worse still when the guy who shoots you is supposed to be your ally."

Archer laughed shortly. "I think in his own weird way, he was saving your life. God knows what that woman had in that syringe. He removed her incentive to inject you." His smile twisted. "Not that Jin Sava would trust us enough to let us know that. At least he left a phase pistol for when you woke up." He indicated the coordinates again. "We should split up, too, when we get to this fork. Maybe we can catch up with one or the other. You take the high road, and I'll take the low road."

"Didn't know you knew the classics, sir," Reed commented mildly.

"Huh," Archer replied with a fleeting grin. "You okay to go on now?"

Reed looked irritated for a second. "I'm fine, sir," he repeated, a little more emphatically this time.

Archer reminded himself that Reed was in full "protector" mode, a role he took very, very seriously, and he had no time to get into an argument over who was responsible for whom. "All right," he conceded finally. "See if you can take up a position near the launch pad, and give Trip your coordinates. We're gonna need some back up. They'll need to use the transporter."

"What about you, sir?"

Archer sighed. "I'm unarmed at the moment, so I'm going to try to keep my head down. Once we have some more firepower, we can see about trying to get them to surrender."

Reed looked skeptical. "Maybe you should take my weapon, sir," he said, sliding the pistol out of its loop and offering it to Archer grip-first.

"And maybe you should just follow my orders," Archer snapped back. "I'm not losing any more –" He stopped and visibly gathered himself. "Just get yourself into position, Malcolm, and call in the cavalry."

"Sir," Reed replied, closed off once again. The lieutenant pivoted on his heel and strode away.

"Be careful, Malcolm," Archer said under his breath, sorry that his Tactical Officer seemed to feel the need to question every decision his captain made nowadays.

Carefully orienting himself, Archer follow his assigned path. He had chosen the secondary trail since he had the coordinate map. This area of the compound had seen little use, clearly; there were no precious textiles or sumptuous guest quarters down these halls. Reed's corridor would lead him straight to the main exit, where, Archer hoped, there would _not_ be an ambush waiting for him. He crept along at as fast a pace as he could manage, listening for any sound at all.

He could tell when he was approaching the outer door because the atmosphere began to change. He examined the key pad mechanism only to discover that the door was unlocked. Someone had just come this way, and had not re-engaged the security locks. He slid the door open, left to right. It was just past the Carah Shon dawn now. The humidity slapped Archer in the face, leaching out the – by comparison – cool air of the corridor almost immediately. The wind had died down to almost nothing, and the rain had stopped. This was the soupy, oppressive Carah Shon he remembered and loathed, and he felt the energy seep out of his body drop by drop. Drawing a deep, wet breath, Archer pushed his way through the heavy atmosphere and into the slowly brightening Carah Shon morning.

He had taken only three cautious steps out into the open courtyard when the stone wall next to his head exploded in a small cloud of chalky dust. Without thinking about it, he dived back inside the dark hallway, and took up a defensive position, crouched with his back to the wall, beside the still-open doorway. Another shot, unmistakably fired from one of _Enterprise_'s phase pistols, landed, a little wide of the mark. He could tell from the impact of energy on stone that whoever was shooting at him had figured out how to change the setting from _stun_ to _kill_.

Archer pressed himself against the inside wall and inched closer to the doorway. As he peered out into the courtyard, he heard the familiar whine for the third time, and ducked backward a split second before the energy beam struck. The shooter was no expert, but it didn't matter whether they hit him in the leg or the heart – he'd never survive the blast.

He knew that Reed would need time to get into position and call for reinforcements. He leaned carefully toward the doorway and called out, "I'm unarmed! Don't shoot!"

"You must think me a fool, Captain Archer," Ryamon Fenree's icy voice replied. "I know you have at least one weapon left. Jin Sava saw to that."

"He only left the one with my Tactical Officer," Archer shouted. "I'm telling you, he's not with me."

There was a long pause, then Fenree suggested smoothly, "Come out into the open, Captain, and we will see whether you are lying."

"How do I know you won't shoot me?" Archer said, stalling.

"You don't. But you may have a better chance at survival than this one does," Fenree said, and Archer felt his stomach drop. Clearly, she had a hostage. It couldn't be Malcolm; the lieutenant would have signaled him somehow. T'Pol had her orders to stay with Darala and to assist Phlox. They were clear over on the other side of the complex. "Fine," Fenree added as the silence drew itself out, "then I will kill you both."

"_Wait_," Archer relented, and slowly eased his leg through the doorway. Fenree held her fire as he rose to a standing position. He blinked against the increasing light until his eyes focused on the doctor, standing in full view approximately twenty meters away. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed heavily when he saw Lab Tech on its knees in front of her, the muzzle of the pistol pointed at its head. In the near distance, maybe fifty meters behind Fenree, there was a small shuttlecraft, similar to Darala's vehicle, its hatch slightly open. That worried him. Geren might or might not be inside, and there was no guarantee that he'd be alone.

"I can kill Niyiik and _still_ have ample time to shoot you, Captain," Fenree assured him, "if you have it in your mind to try to overpower me. This weapon does not require a great deal of skill to fire." Archer didn't bother to argue the point. Indeed, a stray shot would kill him just as dead as a well-placed one, so he'd stay put for the moment.

"What do you want from me, Dr. Fenree?" Archer asked, surreptitiously scanning the area for any sign that Reed was ready for action. The artfully cultivated bushes and trees gave no sign of Reed's whereabouts.

Fenree didn't blink. "I want you dead, but you seem to be particularly hard to exterminate." She shrugged. "No matter. You will die here on The World like everyone else in Derrea Ohm, now that our plan is in motion."

"It's over, Doctor," Archer responded, his voice ragged and rough. "There's nowhere for you to go. Darala's security forces will be here any minute."

"Darala's forces are dropping dead even as we speak," Fenree snorted. "They were our test cases. _So_ easy to access their food supply."

"You're insane."

If this accusation insulted Fenree, she didn't show it. "My sanity is not your concern, Captain. None of this is."

"This became my concern when you kidnapped me and my crew," Archer snarled back, easing back toward the opening. "It became my concern when you infected my crewman with a fatal disease." _Where the hell was Reed? _He couldn't stall much longer.

The small shuttle could hold maybe five people, Archer judged, so it wasn't likely that there was a large crew. Assuming that neither Geren nor Fenree was a pilot, there could be three or four more people to deal with. He recalled the powerful rifles the kidnappers had carried when they had swarmed Darala's shuttle. He had no reason to think that there wouldn't be a stash of them on the shuttle. Malcolm and his team might be walking into more of a fight than they expected.

"Your crew is of no concern to me," Fenree said. "This is yet another crime you may lay on Darala, if you must blame someone. Her dangerous policies of expansion have exposed The People to outside contamination that will take generations to purge."

Archer shook his head. "We already know that you engineered this virus to make it look like it was spread by us. But your plot isn't going to work. Not only do we have the proof of your conspiracy, we've also developed an effective anti-virus. My doctor is heading up the inoculation effort right this moment."

He had the tiny satisfaction of seeing Fenree's smug expression slip a little before she caught herself. "Interesting, Captain Archer, but unimportant. Darala is dying as we speak, and even if she were not, her reign is at an end. All I need is the_ suggestion_ of your people's genocide attempt. Your autopsy will tell the rest of the story. Now," she added briskly, moving on to a new subject, "you are going to signal your ship to recall the soldiers you have undoubtedly directed your officer to send to your rescue. And you will tell your people that if they don't comply, I will kill this being," she nudged Lab Tech with the muzzle of the phase pistol, "ending your chances of ever developing an antidote to the three _other_ virus strains in my possession. All of the data will be lost."

She was bluffing, Archer was pretty sure. Had she been human, he might have picked up some flicker or nervousness, some twitch, that might tell him how far she was willing to go. The People, at least the government officials he and his crew had dealt with, had turned out to be accomplished, even compulsive, liars. She could very well be bluffing right now. Or he could be about to sentence even more innocent Carah Shon L'os to death. He stared hard at Lab Tech's face, hoping for some clue, but he had not learned to read the Explorer's expression; during most of their time together, the reptilian visage had been hidden behind its mesh mask. Even its hands were still, as if Lab Tech were afraid to move at all.

He couldn't risk it, not with this sociopath. He slowly reached into his sleeve pocket and opened his communicator. "Archer to Reed."

There was a pause, and Archer could almost picture the lieutenant's exasperated_ Are you bloody kidding me, sir?_ expression. Finally, the British voice answered. "_Reed here_."

"Malcolm, change of plans. Tell Trip to stand down. Hold off on that cavalry." Reed didn't answer for a moment, wisely trying to determine if this were some kind of trick. "I mean it, Lieutenant. Stand down."

"_Aye, sir. Standing down_."

"Instruct him to come out into the open," Fenree directed. Archer glared at her, but complied. A few seconds later, Reed appeared from his damned clever hiding spot in the trees, phase pistol in hand, silently taking in the hostage tableau. At Archer's reluctant nod, he laid the weapon carefully down on the ground and retreated a few steps.

"Let Niyiik go, Fenree," Archer said, using Lab Tech's given name for the first time. "You've gotten everything you want."

"Nearly," Fenree agreed. She raised the pistol slightly until it was pointing at Archer. She gestured for him to kneel on the still-sodden soil. He did so, slowly, feeling the rainwater seeping through the fabric of his trousers. Lab Tech scrambled out of the way, clearing the line of sight between Fenree and Archer. "The rest will fall into place."

The hatch of the shuttle opened wider. Geren Liaison appeared, a rifle of the type the Explorer kidnappers had used cradled in his hands. "We need to hurry, Ryamon," he urged, showing a little less cold-blooded resolve than his wife. "Darala has been taken into her rooms, and the security forces have mobilized. We have to move now, while the confusion can mask our escape."

"Our plan will succeed or fail in the details," Fenree admonished him. She drew a small vial from her pocket and tossed it casually to Lab Tech. "Do it and live."

Lab Tech eyed Fenree silently for a moment, then regarded the vial in its hand. It took only a second for Archer to realize what '"the plan" was. _Your autopsy will tell the rest of the story_. "No," he said quietly. "Don't do this."

To its credit, Lab Tech seemed at least a little regretful as it advanced on the captain. Its fingers slid the glassine capsule into the hypodermic device with the ease of long practice. Towering over the kneeling human, Lab Tech intoned, "_I must cooperate_."

"Don't you get it?" Archer argued. "They're gonna kill you anyway. You don't figure into their grand plan, you're just a means to an end." Lab Tech paused, as if trying to decipher the idiom. "_You will be disposed of_," Archer clarified. "Even if you do this for them, you will be disposed of."

Lab Tech's wrist flicked slightly. "_If I do not cooperate, I will be disposed of. If I surrender, I will be disposed of_." There was no doubt that Lab Tech would be executed for its part in the attempt on Darala's life, successful or not, under The People's system of justice. It was truly a no-win situation.

"We can help you," Archer persisted. "We'll make sure Darala knows that you helped us develop the anti-virus." Lab Tech studied the needle in its hand, seeming to weigh its options. More impatiently, Archer snapped, "Dammit, do the _right_ thing for once, not the expedient thing." Even as he said the words, he knew they wouldn't make a difference. Geren and Fenree would lie if it was to their advantage, and Lab Tech would sell itself to the highest bidder, especially if the offered price was its life. "Please," he added.

"I will count to three, Niyiik, and then I will kill you both," Fenree offered from across the clearing. "The slight change in plan will not matter much in the long run. This is your last chance."

"You're better off taking your chances with us," Archer whispered insistently. "She's going to kill you anyway, no matter what you do. I've never lied to you, you know that. Trust me now."

Just beyond the scientist, Archer saw Fenree's arm stiffen, and her finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol. Yelling, "Malcolm!" he pulled Lab Tech down to the ground a split second before the blast of energy whizzed by them. The lieutenant responded instantly, scooping up his abandoned phase pistol and lobbing it overhand in Archer's direction. Simultaneously, he drew another weapon from the waistband of his fatigues, where it had been tucked at the small of his back.

The air around them erupted with weapons fire, bolts of light and heat crisscrossing the small clearing, more than could be accounted for by the four weapons Archer had seen. He saw a flash of fabric in the far trees: a MACO already in position, aiming with deadly accuracy. Beside him, Lab Tech whimpered with shock and fear, small guttural sounds that its translator could not convey in words.

Firing with his right hand, he grabbed Lab Tech's arm with his left. He only had a few seconds, tops, before Fenree or Geren fixed their reluctant accomplice in their crosshairs, and eliminated it as a problem sooner rather than later. In his peripheral vision, he saw a MACO take aim in his direction. "Don't shoot!" he called desperately, hoping that those additional strains of virus Fenree had mentioned were a bluff, but unwilling to take the chance that Lab Tech might take the formula for the anti-virus to its grave. He dragged Lab Tech a back few meters, flinching and ducking as the ground exploded around him. Every few seconds, he squeezed off a couple of shots in the general direction of where Fenree had last stood, more to provide cover than for accuracy.

Archer heard Reed shout orders, directing the MACOs to fire at the small ship, its hatch now closed up, tight and impenetrable. The plasma bolts from their powerful rifles thumped without damage against the sturdy hull of the ship. Whoever was inside the shuttle fired its small weapons sporadically, but effectively. The shuttle's engines ignited with a roar, and it launched unsteadily, as if the hand at the helm were inexperienced. The MACOs were forced to remain under cover of the decorative trees surrounding the clearing until the dirt and debris settled. They continued to fire at the shuttle until it was out of range.

Lab Tech was dead weight now, most likely paralyzed with fear. Archer wrapped an arm around its torso, pulling it along as he crawled toward the still-open door to the complex. He concentrated on staying low to the ground to present as small a target as he could. As he reached the opening, he realized that the shooting had sputtered to a stop. He raised his head cautiously, testing. After a moment, Reed stepped out of the tree line where he had taken cover, and began to approach the gangly heap that was the body of Ryamon Fenree. He leaned over her, running his scanner, then tucked the device into his pocket. "Dead, sir," he reported quietly.

Archer's shoulders sagged. "Where's Geren?" he asked.

"He took shelter in the ship," Reed replied, lifting his eyes briefly toward the rapidly disappearing dot of the shuttle. "He's hit, though, I don't know how badly."

It didn't matter now whether Geren was wounded, or how seriously. Trip had his orders. _Enterprise_ would not let that shuttle leave orbit.

"Mmmph," Archer groaned as he tried to gain his footing. As he did so, Lab Tech rolled over onto its back, and the gaping wound in the middle of its torso became evident. Everything spun for a moment, and Archer sat back on the spongy, wet dirt. Reed pulled out his scanner again, looking for life signs. Archer watched his face intently, then had his answer as the lieutenant dropped his hand to his side. He rested his elbows on his knees and placed his face in his hands.

_How could such a simple plan go to hell so quickly?_

"Dammit, Malcolm," Archer said more wearily than angrily, "I told you to stand down. This didn't have to happen."

"With all due respect, sir, there was no way either you or Lab Tech was getting out of this clearing alive." Reed finished scanning Lab Tech's body, then turned the device toward Archer. Behind him, the MACOs carefully swept the area in tight formation, making sure there were no remaining threats.

"I gave you a direct order, Lieutenant," Archer insisted testily.

Reed nodded. "Yes, you did, under duress. My overriding duty is to keep you safe, sir, even if that means disregarding such an order. Would you like me to cite you the precise Starfleet regulation to that effect?" The lieutenant's tone was bland and businesslike, holding not even a trace of smug certainty. Archer wished he could summon up the will and the strength in his now vibrating body to argue the point. As it was, his head swam uncomfortably, probably fatigue, heat, and adrenaline drop-off all converging on him at once. He raised a hand to mop his sweating brow.

"Sir." Reed's voice sounded grim all of a sudden, with a trace of a horrified undertone.

"What _now_, Malcolm?" Archer wasn't sure he could handle even one more thing.

"Your wrist, sir."

Archer swallowed the sudden lump of apprehension as he turned his right arm so that his hand faced palm upward. An area of puffy redness red marred the skin just below his shirt sleeve. He let his eyes roam across the ground next to him, near his legs, toward the still body of Lab Tech. He froze as he found what he was looking for. Reaching out with a steady hand, he picked up the hypodermic device, the one Lab Tech had been considering when the shooting had started.

He was no doctor, but even he could tell that it was now empty. And he had a sinking feeling that Ryamon Fenree had chosen the last moments of her life to finally tell the truth: if the vial contained three other strains of the virus, then they had no cure and no data to produce one.

Reed took two large paces backward, digging in his pocket for his cloth facemask and gloves. He tugged the second glove on just as Archer lost the battle to stay upright, and barely managed to catch the captain and lower him gently to the sopping ground. He fumbled with his communicator. "Reed to Enterprise."

"Tucker."

"Medical emergency. It's the captain."


	21. Interview With The Red Queen

**Chapter Twenty-One – Interview With The Red Queen**

T'Pol surveyed the controlled chaos of Derrea Ohm's main hospital. Rows of wheeled beds lined every wall in near-military precision, each carefully square with the others, each occupied by an ill or dying Carah Shon victim. Medical personnel navigated quietly between the rows, monitoring patients, administering medication, and, occasionally, placing a small red tag on a bed – a signal to others that the patient had died.

Looking around, T'Pol saw at least a hundred of those red tags distributed across the room. There was no doubt that the anti-virus that Phlox had developed was effective; their real enemy was time. As a new Carah Shon day dawned, inhabitants of the city and its surrounding areas had begun their morning routines: washing, eating – a hundred different normal activities bringing them into contact with the contaminated and deadly water sources flowing through the compromised water processing facilities. The virus had raced through the local population and the Regent's Palace grounds like wildfire, just as Geren and Fenree had intended. Jin Sava's advance warning to Darala's security forces – those who had not been deliberately targeted in the first wave – along with the various contingency plans developed by Reed and Tucker had effected a full water plant shut-down within hours.

It was not soon enough for the twelve thousand, six hundred twenty patients being treated in this massive facility and four others like it, nor the eight thousand Carah Shon who had not been reached in time. With every passing hour, more individuals presented themselves to the designated triage areas, reporting symptoms.

_What is is,_ T'Pol thought to herself, not unsympathetically. _Enterprise_ and her crew had done what they could, as quickly and well as possible. Perhaps millions of lives had been saved. She would not dwell on what could not be changed.

She turned her back on the hushed activity of the main room and ducked behind a heavy grey curtain. Captain Archer was awake, and looking annoyed.

He sat cross-legged with a pillow on his lap on a pallet in the middle of the quarantine cell – a space three meters in diameter and transparent, like a giant test tube – glaring balefully in her direction. He wasn't angry or upset with _her_, she knew. It was most likely the combination of his inability to get more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time due to the constant monitoring, and his total lack of clothing that irritated him at the moment. He'd asked her, more than once and with varying degrees of politeness, to see if she could score him a pair of pants, a set of pajamas, even something he called a "hospital jonny," but she was going to have to tell him, yet again, that she'd come up empty.

It wasn't that he was physically uncomfortable. The ambient air in the quarantine room was kept at exactly twenty-two degrees, what humans considered "room temperature," a little warmer even than the usual temperature aboard _Enterprise_. The Carah Shon physicians had also modified the lighting to mimic the exact level of light and UV radiation emitted by Earth's sun on a beach in San Francisco during late spring. This native solar energy, they explained, would assist in the healing process.

If they had asked her, she would have recommended a dim room, some peace and quiet, and a pair of boxer shorts instead. But they hadn't asked her.

She reached up and activated the intercom, hearing the muted _ping_ as the channel opened. "Captain, how are you feeling?"

He made a visible effort to respond pleasantly. "Doing okay, thanks, T'Pol. All things considered."

"No nausea, vomiting, headaches? Dizziness?"

"No," he answered patiently. "I had some mild symptoms a while ago, but they've gone away."

T'Pol scanned the running readout on the wall next to the chamber and keyed the vital signs into her scanner for transmission to Phlox. "Your temperature is normal, but your blood pressure is elevated."

"That's probably because I'm aggravated," Archer replied, a little sharply, taking in her otherwise empty hands. "No luck on the clothing, huh?"

She shot him a look, mildly relieved that he was feeling well enough to worry about unimportant things. "Clothing would interfere with the sensors, Captain." He glanced down at the fifteen or so squares stuck all over his torso and arms. Another six or seven were adhered to his temples and back, all feeding data to the physicians in charge of his care, and to Phlox, who was monitoring the captain's condition remotely. Of all of the opinions, Phlox's was the most important. With his first-hand knowledge of both the virus' characteristics and Archer's personal history, the Denobulan would know immediately if Fenree's final declaration, that there were three additional strains at play, was true. The emptied hypospray had set in motion an endless series of tests on Archer, who was now a potential Patient Zero for a whole new biological threat.

Archer raised a hand to rub his temple, but a sensor got in the way. He sighed, aggrieved. "Any idea when I can get out of here?" he asked.

"According to my latest conversation with Doctor Phlox, the modified anti-virus seems to be working. Your blood counts appear to be returning to their normal range." He grimaced impatiently at this medical jargon, so she shot straight to the answer he was waiting for. "If you remain stable for another twenty-four hours, standard, you can return to _Enterprise _for further, less aggressive, monitoring."

She could tell by his expression that this estimate was twenty-three and half hours too long, but he didn't argue. Instead, he inquired gravely, "How many casualties so far?"

It was illogical, in her opinion, for him to worry about a catastrophe that he could do nothing about, but she knew that he would continue to ask until she updated him. "The _rate_ of new infections has slowed," she said quietly, "but current numbers are approaching thirteen thousand."

"_Dead_?" Archer asked in horror.

"Infected. I do not know how many have died so far," she lied, "but I am sure it is much lower than our original estimates." She saw something odd flicker in his eyes, but he looked away abruptly.

"How is Darala?"

"Her Serenity is expected to make a complete recovery," T'Pol said, in exactly the tone and cadence of the four different government officials who had given her the information. "Ms Oreevi was able to administer the anti-virus within seconds of the attack, and Darala's physicians stabilized her condition immediately. At the moment, she is transmitting broadcasts by audio and video to assure the general population that the virus threat is being managed and that her government remains in complete control."

Archer snorted. Knowing Darala, this information was probably seventy to eighty percent true, at most. "When I've been cleared out of here, I'd like to see her. Set that up for me, will you?"

T'Pol paused. "If I may ask, Captain, what would be the purpose of such a meeting?"

"Why wouldn't I meet with her?"

"Sir, you have just had several attempts made on your life. Darala has been highly uncooperative during this whole incident. I fail to see the benefit of – "

He cut her off, a little impatiently. "T'Pol, I have a mission to complete. There was a purpose we were sent out here in the first place, remember?"

"And you think that Darala would be receptive to this … mission?" She couldn't keep the doubt out of her voice. "Or that you are in a proper frame of mind to conduct diplomatic negotiations?"

Archer started to rise, as if he felt the need to pace, then, clutching the pillow, thought better of it. He settled back down. "I have a job to do, T'Pol. Starfleet sent us out here to gather allies. If it's in any way possible, I have to salvage this somehow." He leaned forward for emphasis bracing a fist on the floor. "Thirteen thousand of these people are infected with a pathogen developed from a virus I contracted, what, twenty-five years ago? However many more are dead. Because of me. If we hadn't come out here, none of this would have happened. I can't leave it like this. I have to find some way to make it right – or at the very least, I don't want to leave a thread that someone else, Darala's successor maybe, can use to start a war against Earth somewhere down the road."

The short pause telegraphed T'Pol's misgivings. "Captain, after what Lab Tech did to you, do you really think that you are in the right frame of mind to have these discussions?"

"I have a job to do, T'Pol," Archer growled, "and I'll do it. I have never put my personal feelings before a diplomatic mission." The second the words left his mouth, a pained expression crossed his face. She knew that his mind and hers had gone to exactly the same place. _Except, perhaps, when it involves Porthos_.

"_Don't say it_," he warned immediately. She had enough of a self-preservation instinct to obey.

After a moment, he went on, his words low and grinding. "If you're afraid I'm going to let my personal feelings about … what happened … get in the way of negotiating in good faith, T'Pol, let me assure you that they won't. My job is to ensure that Earth has allies against the Romulans in whatever conflict we're facing. We know The People have had dealings with the Romulans. This might be our only chance to tip them in our favor." He took a deep breath and clenched his other fist. "Look, this is not the first time I've been kidnapped, or tortured, or lied to, or betrayed. And every single time, I've done my job – no matter what. Because I _always_ do my fucking job, T'Pol."

T'Pol heard the soft complaint of the sensors, registering changes in the captain's heart rate or blood pressure or temperature. He was angry and hurt by her implication, perhaps more so than the situation warranted. That in and of itself told her that he was not ready, emotionally, physically, or mentally, to deal with Darala and her shifting truth, nor had he begun to deal with what had happened to him. But the steely look in his eye made it plain that he was not going to see reason on the issue. She sighed. "It will be necessary for me to note for the record that, given the scope and nature of your ordeal, as your First Officer, I recommend against further diplomatic contact between you and Darala," she said finally.

He held her gaze contemptuously, his jaw moving in rhythm as he clenched his teeth. "Fine," he spat eventually. "Put whatever you feel is _necessary_ in your report, T'Pol. I don't care." He eyed her for a moment more, then added, "Dismissed."

T'Pol closed the intercom and had taken three steps toward the quarantine curtain before she heard the sharp thud against the transparent wall of the room. She forced herself not to miss a step, but her practiced ear recognized the sound as the impact of a fist on a wall.

* * *

"I have my doubts that you are physically up to this kind of activity, Captain," Phlox protested for the fifth or sixth time.

Archer concentrated on keeping the unsteady wobble out of his stride, not willing to give the doctor any excuse to pull medical rank and call off this interview. The security officer at the door to Darala's suite took a half second to confirm their identities – no mystery there – and unlocked the door. Archer paused before stepping inside. "This won't take long, Doctor. It's just a conversation. No heavy lifting."

They both knew that wasn't true. Phlox had insisted on accompanying the captain to this final debrief with a level of stubbornness rarely seen. He carried, more as a prop than anything else, a bag of fully loaded hyposprays and vials, on the chance that Archer's condition suddenly deteriorated, or some other attack was made on his life. But none of this fooled the captain. Archer guessed that T'Pol had reported her argument to Phlox, along with her impressions of her commanding officer's mental and emotional state, and that Phlox had agreed with her assessment. Unable to dissuade the captain from going forward with this interview, the doctor had finally giving in after the promised twenty-four hours had expired, and then had simply invited himself along, under a medical pretense.

The Denobulan doctor's other motive wasn't that hard to read, either, Archer thought. In the wake of Egawa's death, Phlox had developed a hyper-vigilance about Archer's vital signs and symptoms. The doctor clearly still carried the guilt of missing the secondary issues that had led to Egawa's cardiac arrest. The moment Archer had been released from the quarantine chamber, Phlox had attached a bio-monitor to his upper arm and had proceeded to run various electronic tests with the regularity of a Swiss watch. He had not let the captain out of his sight: keeping his commanding officer's body and spirit intact had become the primary goal for the remainder of this mission.

In the end, it didn't matter one way or another to Archer. He had to talk to Darala, and he didn't much care whether he was obliged to bring a babysitter with him.

Her Serenity was semi-reclined on a long red couch, similar to the one Archer had seen in one of his erotic, drug-induced dreams during his captivity. He shook off the odd déjà vu feeling and strode inside the nicely appointed receiving room. "Your Serenity," he said levelly, by way of greeting.

Darala's manner was decidedly less effusive than it had been the first time she had received Archer's entourage, several weeks before. She did not rise from her seat, nor did she put out a hand to be kissed. Her expression remained neutral, as did her coloring. Whatever cards she held, she was playing them close to the vest.

"Captain Archer. I am relieved to see that you have recovered from your recent ordeal." Her gaze flicked toward Phlox. "Or perhaps not fully?"

Archer gestured Phlox forward. "This is our ship's doctor, Phlox. He's accompanying me in case you have any remaining questions regarding the pathogen." _Show no weakness._

Darala seemed to consider this. "My physicians tell me that all four strains of the Earth virus have now been contained."

"That's true, Serenity," Archer replied, "but I don't think it's at all accurate to call it an 'Earth virus.' This was a plot conceived and carried out by People of The World. We had nothing to do with it."

The monarch moved her eye ridges in mild disbelief. "I hardly think providing a genetically mutated human virus is nothing, Captain."

He wasn't going to win the point, he knew, so he simply raised his eyebrows and continued, "Be that as it may, Serenity, the immediate threat of infection appears to have passed. The anti-virus – _Phlox's_ anti-virus," he emphasized, "is proving to be very effective." Darala said nothing. "We regret that so many lives were lost."

Darala studied the captain, unblinking. He knew that was not a good sign. Finally, she remarked, in an overly casual tone, "My advisers are recommending that I seek the extradition of your Commander Tucker and his command crew to face charges for his destruction of the shuttle in Carah Shon airspace."

Archer bristled. "He fired on _my_ order. If Geren or Fenree had escaped, we believe they would eventually have traveled to Earth and released this virus there. Trip had no choice."

"So you say." She gave The People's version of a shrug. "But I have declined to seek prosecution of your crew for the murder of several of our citizens, provided that _Enterprise_ leaves orbit of The World as soon as possible. I think it best that The People put this unfortunate and tragic experience behind them."

Turning to Phlox, Archer asked, "How long before the medical crisis is over?"

Phlox twitched. "All of the infected persons have been treated; it will take a few days of managing symptoms before they can be released to their homes. We have also nearly completed a systematic inoculation protocol designed to reach the widest possible population that might have come into contact with the contaminated water or its by-products. There have been no new cases within the past eighteen hours, standard. By this time tomorrow, if no factors have changed, we will be able to consider this pandemic over."

Darala looked like she wanted to argue with the doctor, but his placid, professorial manner forestalled her. "Then I expect _Enterprise_ to leave The World – and the system – by sunset tomorrow," she directed instead.

It was the utterly dismissive tone, the overarching sense that The People were in no way to blame for any of this disaster, that finally got to Archer. He had taken his share of responsibility in any number of failed diplomatic missions, and it stuck in his craw that The People's warped history would record a version of events that would lay the deaths of more than ten thousand people at his feet. He started to turn toward the door, then halted. "Serenity, if I may ask one question..."

Behind him, he felt Phlox tense and straighten. The doctor clearly recognized his blandly dangerous tone of voice.

Darala had no such experience. "You may."

"Why did you perform the _Sayn to yish-vaha_ with me, that night at the banquet?"

The question dropped like a lead weight in the middle of the room. Darala's complexion was a study in colors, as they changed more rapidly and subtly than Archer could follow. She opened her mouth several times in quick succession, then pressed her lips together and looked away. All of the imperiousness of her bearing seemed to slip away, grain by grain, as she came face to face with her own behaviour and part in all of this.

Archer was just petty enough to enjoy the show, even if he never got an honest answer to his query.

It took several minutes before Darala could meet his eye. She glanced at him once, then rose to glide across the room, toward the lush, intricate tapestry covering the far wall. Archer watched her, but didn't move from his spot. He shifted his weight from side to side to relieve the ache of fatigue radiating down his legs.

"Humans are very free with their touches," she said finally. "I have read some of your literature, watched your entertainments. Your intimacies are generous and varied. Parents, children, lovers, friends, there is no shame in it. Even your Vulcan permits it. Your greeting, Captain, the pressing of your mouth to my hand, that was the first time I had been touched in public since I became The One Who Is. Have you any idea how long that has been?"

"No," Archer said quietly.

"I have reigned for your entire life," she said looking over her shoulder toward him with a wistful smile. "I am older than you might think." She turned back to the wall and ran her fingers lightly over the fabric of the tapestry. From this distance, Archer couldn't tell what the splash of bright embroidery against dark cloth depicted; it looked like something being destroyed, or perhaps created. "The law turns a blind eye to the occasional dalliances of The One, as long as they are conducted in private. Arat knew this, and for a while, he was satisfied with it. But he wanted more, he wanted public acknowledgment, and that was not … it could not be done. So he betrayed me." She closed her hand into a fist. "How much of this could have been prevented if I had been able to give him the one thing he asked.

"And then you kissed my hand, and I remembered what it was like, before I was the One Who Is, She Who Cannot Be Touched. And _I_ wanted more." She spun to face him, giving The People's version of a bitter laugh. "In the end, the _Sayn to yish-vaha_ does not even require touching, yet it is the most intimate of expressions. Perhaps if I had been in full control of my faculties, and not, as I have been informed, drugged, perhaps a clearer mind may have prevailed. But I was not, and it did not, and those who sought to remove me had all the reason they needed."

"You used me," Archer said.

Darala blinked slowly. "In a fashion, yes." She shrugged again. "There was a convenience in it. Arat would get the message, you would be gone the next day, and I could, just for a moment … _feel_."

Archer waited, unmoving. It took all of his considerable control not to let loose on her. _Do you know what that one indulgent act has cost us? Can you possibly _fathom_ the price we all have paid for your selfishness? _He could feel himself shaking with the stress of keeping silent.

From behind him, he heard Phlox gently murmur, "Captain," and knew that his bio-monitor was sending out warning signals.

His voice sounded tight as he said, "I lost a _crew member_ because of your whole … situation. His name was James Egawa, and he was twenty-seven years old. That's very young for a human; too young to die. He had been aboard for a little over a year, and he was … he was a part of our family. He didn't do anything to deserve what happened to him. So I hope your little experiment was worth it to you, at least."

This time, Darala held his angry gaze. "The One does not apologize," she said finally.

"Why am I not surprised," Archer replied, his voice caustic.

Darala raised a hand. "The One … _cannot_ … apologize," she said deliberately, and Archer suddenly understood. She was as trapped by her office, by generations of tradition, as she had been when he had first set foot on The World. But this time, she was reluctant to step outside the tightly controlled box that was her life, lest she unleash another catastrophic whirlwind. "It is not done."

The captain nodded once. This interview was over. At least she hadn't gone all Red Queen on him, demanding his head for imaginary crimes. "Very well," he said, and turned to go.

"I, too, have lost family," Darala added softly. "I understand that the criminals who perpetrated this plot targeted and used the Heirs of the First House. I have no Vya left. My line will die with me."

Archer felt bad for her, he really did, but by now, his store of energy was nearly exhausted and all he wanted to do was to go back to his ship, find his quarters, and sleep. Phlox had other ideas.

"Er, if I may, Captain?" The doctor moved forward into the room from where he had been observing silently in the shadows. "Serenity, you have surviving Vya."

The shock on Darala's face lasted quite a few seconds. "How can that be? All of the Heirs of the One were taken from the nursery. I was told that they were destroyed."

"That is not _entirely_ accurate," Phlox answered, diplomatically. "The Vya were used to cultivate the original virus. That virus was specifically engineered to be deadly to humans, because that was the origin of the pathogen, and to The People. More specifically, it was designed to be most effective against _you_. This was an assassination attempt, and the general pandemic would have been used to cover it up. Most of the Vya were destroyed in the course of the development of the virus." Phlox paused. "But not all. The Explorer researcher, Niyiik, had three remaining Vya in its possession, which we took custody of and studied in our effort to find an antidote. They are still viable."

"How can this be?" Darala asked wonderingly, in a hushed tone, as if she were afraid to believe his words.

Phlox shot a look at Archer. The captain shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "With your permission, Serenity, I will arrange for the Vya to be transferred back to the nursery of the First House. You may want to increase the security before I do that, though."

Darala was still stunned at this turn of events. "Of course, doctor." As if forgetting herself, she added absently, "Thank you."

The doctor didn't need to glance at his scanner to notice that fatigue was rapidly catching up to Archer. "If there is nothing else, Serenity, I believe it is time for us to return to the ship." He gave a slight, almost courtly bow, graceful despite his bulk, and ushered the exhausted captain from the room.

Archer's steps grew slower and slower as the two of them made their way to the main area of the Regent's Palace. Phlox had opted to use _Enterprise'_s transporter (he did not possess the same apprehension about the device that his shipmates did), in order to get Archer to Sickbay as quickly as possible.

As they waited for clearance to transport, Archer said, "It's pretty lucky that those Vya survived all that experimentation."

Phlox smiled. "I believe you have a better word for it in your language, Captain: _ironic_." At Archer's look, he explained, "As I understand it, the whole reason for this plot was to preserve the purity of The People, to cause Darala, or rather her successor, to return to a more isolationist policy, hmmm? To convince The World that cultural openness and further expansion into the interstellar community would be detrimental to The People? And in the process, lay the blame for this crime on the human race?" The smile turned a bit sly. "Ironic, then, that, _because_ of this virus plot, the next One Who Is will be genetically ... part human."

Archer was spared having to reply by the familiar and welcome shimmer of _Enterprise_'s transporter.


	22. The Breath Before The Phrase

**Author's Note**: _First, let me apologize profusely for the delay in putting up the last couple of chapters of this story. I got hit with a serious medical issue just before the holidays, and it's taken me some time to get back on my feet. I never intended to leave readers hanging. Thanks to the folks who emailed me to inquire about the status of this story; I really appreciate the encouragement. And, thanks, generally, to everyone who has stuck with this very long, very complicated story. I hope it's been worth it. bluedana (April 2010)._

**Chapter Twenty-two - The Breath Before The Phrase**

The turbolift doors opened almost silently. Captain Archer and Commander Tucker stepped out of the lift onto the Bridge. At oh-nine hundred hours, ship's time, the Bridge was quietly efficient, its crew making last-minute preparations for leaving orbit. Darala's departure deadline, sunset over the capital city, lay behind them by several hours. _Enterprise_ had only now retrieved the last of her medical personnel and supplies, their evacuations overseen by an unflappable and unhurried First Officer. Still, Hoshi had already begun to field increasingly insistent messages from the capital, all variations on the same theme: _Leave. IMMEDIATELY._

Impeccable in his uniform, the captain took a quick survey of the Bridge, nodding to Travis at the helm. Reed gave a ghost of a smile and said quietly, "Captain on the Bridge." It was a formality only, offered as a relieved "welcome home" and a subtle acknowledgment that the Bridge was, as it always had been, Archer's. Trip felt the ship's equilibrium begin to shift into place in preparation for her captain re-taking the center seat.

Unused to Archer's informal Bridge style, Ensign Stackhouse stood sharply, just as she'd been taught at the Academy. "Sir!" Trip could almost hear her spine snap into a straight line as she greeted her commanding officer.

Archer looked once, askance, at the unfamiliar face manning the Science Station, and Trip leaned forward slightly to remind the captain that T'Pol was still finishing up other duties. "As you were, Ensign," the captain said softly, the tiny, lopsided grin the only outward sign of his amusement. Stackhouse sat back down and returned her rapt attention to the Science monitor. "She always like that?" Archer wondered, _sotto voce_, and his third in command, who was used to the spit-shiny eagerness of the ensign by now, replied, just as quietly, "Yup." Archer couldn't recall ever having been _that_ by-the-book, and it made him feel old.

Trip began to walk over to the auxiliary station, his usual spot for the rare times he was on the Bridge. "Trip," Archer reminded him with a slightly broader, even more amused smile, gesturing to the empty command chair. "Forgetting something?"

It took tremendous effort for Trip not to let his mouth drop open. Archer never relinquished command of the Bridge to anyone, not even to T'Pol, unless he was incapacitated or heading off-ship. If he was present on the Bridge, he was in command of the Bridge. And Trip knew Phlox had cleared the captain for duty – albeit reluctantly, after Archer had left Sickbay against medical advice – almost four hours ago. He returned Archer's smile with a sickly one of his own, and stepped to the center of the Bridge. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Archer take a seat at the auxiliary station.

The commander forced a note of calm into his voice. "What's our status, Travis? Are we ready to hit the road?"

Ensign Stackhouse glanced back and forth between Commander Tucker and Captain Archer, confusion written on her face in big block letters, but Mayweather calmly turned back around to the helm and said, "We're about fifteen minutes away from leaving orbit, sir."

"We might want to speed things up just a little, Commander," Hoshi said from Communications. "I'm getting some chatter about launching military ships within the next few minutes. They really, really, _really_ want us gone. I've been getting updates from … Shevon Oreevi Liaison. She's 'recommending' that we leave now."

Trip slid gingerly back into the command chair, feeling out of place, as if he were taking an exam under the watchful, assessing eye of some professor he wanted very badly to impress. He resisted the urge to peek over his shoulder at Archer for permission before he issued his next directive. "Report, Malcolm?"

The lieutenant straightened, showing no sign of surprise. "I'm reading six vessels on approach, sir." He paused. "Weapons hot on all of them. Should I go to Tactical Alert?"

Trip shifted in his seat. "No, let's not give them any provocation. They're not trying to fire on us – they know we can take them out without breaking a sweat. They just wanna have the last word, be a little dramatic. Travis, can we at least break orbit within the next five minutes?"

"I think I can do it in two, sir, but it won't be pretty."

"You're a good man, Travis. Take it nice and easy, though. Don't want them to think they've chased us off with our tail between our legs, now do we?"

Mayweather snorted softly as he reset his controls. "That sounded almost _Andorian_, sir."

The commander laughed, then threw a discreet glance toward Archer, as if too much levity on the Bridge might be a problem. The captain merely sat at aux, seemingly engrossed in monitoring ship functions, looking more like an interested observer than a concerned captain. The man seemed almost _too _relaxed, and Trip began to get the uneasy feeling that this whole thing involved more than a subtle test of his command skills.

Not for the first time, he wished T'Pol were on the Bridge.

After a moment, Mayweather signaled ready, and Trip ordered him to break orbit. The entire Bridge crew seemed to hold its breath as they smoothly departed The World – if The People were inclined to pick a fight, this would be the perfect time to do it, while _Enterprise_'s maneuverability was severely limited by the effort of breaking away from the planet's gravitational force. Trip counted to thirty in his head, then felt the almost imperceptible change as the starship broke free and sailed gracefully into open space. The Carah Shon ships paced _Enterprise_, keeping a constant non-agressive distance. He relaxed the fist he hadn't realized he'd clenched, and took a moment to verify Travis' coordinates. For the moment, they were simply on course to leave the system. He had no idea where Starfleet HQ would be sending them next. He looked around to the aux station, in case the captain wanted to share any details about their next mission, but the seat was empty now. Reed indicated the Ready Room door with his chin. Archer had left the Bridge without saying a word.

That was when Trip began to worry.

* * *

Porthos followed the steady pattern of the water polo ball with his eyes as it bounced in perfect cadence against the bulkhead and floor before landing securely in Archer's spread palm. The brief pauses between each _bounce-thud-smack_ were greeted with raised ears, at least as raised as any beagle ears could manage, in hopeful anticipation that more morsels of food might find their way from the plate sitting on the bed to the small space between the beagle's paws. When inclined, Porthos' master had very good aim.

The dog sighed heavily, a broad hint, and the cadence faltered. "Ready for more, boy?" Archer asked rhetorically, as if it were possible for the dog to refuse a piece of well-cooked protein. He broke off another piece of medium-rare Salisbury steak and tossed it in a lazy arc toward Porthos' waiting mouth. The meat never even got close to the deck. Two more chunks followed in quick succession. "I don't suppose you're at all interested in this healthy green salad, are you?" The beagle swallowed the meat and rested his head down on his right paw. "Hmm. Didn't think so." Archer lazily stabbed a few pieces of deep green hydroponically grown lettuce and beefsteak tomato with his fork, dipped it into the oil and vinegar dressing, and considered it. After a moment, he spread the rest of the food randomly across the plate and put the fork down. Chef _might _be fooled into thinking some of it had been eaten if he didn't look too closely.

At least Phlox would appreciate the fact that Archer had chosen a cheese-less meal to feed to his dog.

As he pushed the dinner tray to the foot of the bed, the door chime rang. A little past oh-nine-hundred. Enough time for Trip to get off duty, confer with T'Pol over dinner, and head to the captain's quarters.

"Come," Archer called, pulling himself up to a sitting position on the bed. As expected, Trip stepped into the room, followed closely by Commander T'Pol. Archer palmed the water polo ball for a second, then dropped it onto the floor. "Evening, Commanders," he said pleasantly.

"Cap'n," Trip replied, already looking wary, while T'Pol simply wore her _I-am-open-for-business _face. Archer watched as Trip surveyed the room, taking in the half-empty plate of food and the hard-bound novel lying facedown on the bed. "Sorry to disturb you so late. Had a couple fires to put out in Engineering. Figuratively speaking," he added awkwardly.

Archer swung his legs around and rose to a sitting position. "Not a problem. I was just finishing up dinner."

Trip raised an eyebrow - a mannerism he had obviously gotten from T'Pol. "Yeah. How'd Porthos like that steak?" he asked.

Archer's pleasant smile dropped away as his glance dropped guiltily to the dinner tray. He should have known that Trip would figure him out sooner rather than later. Gesturing to the one chair in the room, wedged under his computer desk, he invited T'Pol to sit. Trip stayed standing, leaning against the wall next to the door with his arms crossed. "I've already transmitted the mission log to Starfleet Command. I don't want them to be taken by surprise if The People decided to contact the Romulans on the back of this disaster."

"You really think Darala would get back in league with the Romulans?" Trip wanted to know. "I mean, we didn't part on the greatest terms, but Jin Sava seemed to get it pretty well."

Archer looked at T'Pol, who responded, "Darala has shown that she will do whatever seems in her best interest at any given moment. However, she may defer to Jin Sava while she deals with the aftermath of the pandemic."

"Speaking of that, T'Pol," Archer said, "I heard through the grapevine that the Vulcan Science Directorate might be interested in publishing a paper on your research and experiments, if you and Phlox have any interest in writing one. That would be quite a feather in your cap, I'm sure - that's a figure of speech - and, yes, I know it's not logical, because you were both simply doing your job," he went on as she opened her mouth, "but what you did was pretty damned amazing and you should be recognized for it." He grinned at her briefly, both because he was pleased that she and Phlox would get some benefit out of this whole ordeal, and because she was looking as close to nonplussed as he had ever seen her. He turned to Trip. "And I've put you in for a commendation for your handling of this whole situation, rescuing me and - even if Darala won't admit it - avoiding a global _coup d'etat_."

Trip shrugged, both honored and embarrassed. "That's not necessary, Cap'n," he muttered.

Archer glanced from Trip to T'Pol and back, amused. "Sometimes I think the two of you have begun to share a brain."

The two commanders studiously avoided each other's eyes. _You two couldn't be more obvious_, Archer thought to himself, _if you put up a fifty-foot billboard_.

He picked up the padd resting on his pillow and ran his index finger along the edge of it, silent for a moment. This was harder than he'd expected, much more difficult than a captain issuing orders to his staff. These were his friends, and he was about to disappoint them. "Commanders, I asked you to come here for a reason. You two ought to be the first to know that I've put in a request to Starfleet Command for a leave of absence," he said simply.

"What? _Why_?" Trip asked, looking rather stunned, while T'Pol inquired, "For how long?"

He decided to take the easier, more practical question first. "I haven't decided. It'd take me a while to get back to Earth, and I was thinking I'd stay for maybe three, four months. I ... need a break, and," he paused, looking for the right words, "and frankly, I think I need some time to get my head together."

"Cap'n..." Trip's objection, whatever it might have been, trailed away. "I don't understand," he said finally.

Archer resisted the urge to pace the tiny, crowded quarters. With three people and a dog in the room, there was barely enough deck space to manage three steps in any direction. Instead, he leaned forward and clasped his hands in the space between his knees. "You've read my mission report, Trip." He flicked a glance at T'Pol, still seated silently across the room. "And T'Pol's addendum." The captain's log had included as many details as he could stomach, formed into a textbook-dry narrative. And although he had not explicitly described everything Lab Tech had done to him, anyone reading T'Pol's more scientific account of the genetic manipulation of the pathogen would easily be able to fill in the gaps. Additionally, T'Pol's report subtly but accurately described the captain's physical and emotional recovery since his return to _Enterprise, _and, frankly, Archer had had enough respect for her and her work not to edit her comments before sending the report on.

Reading her version of the events, coming face to face with what had happened during their captivity on the planetoid, had put things into clearer focus. He realized he couldn't continue to jump at shadows, to hold his breath waiting for a clawed hand to grasp his shoulder, or a crew member to blink sideways in the middle of a conversation. Every night brought disturbing dreams - when he slept at all; every morning, the haunting music of the _Sayn_ echoed in his ears.

This level of preoccupation in a captain of a starship in deep space could get them all killed.

Trip shot a glare in T'Pol's direction; clearly there was disagreement between them as to just how much Starfleet really needed to know. He could easily imagine _that _tumultuous conversation: Trip having the captain's back as always, arguing for omissions, shadings, and revisions that would protect the man's privacy and dignity; T'Pol logically maintaining that the details were pertinent to understanding the mission's outcome. From the comprehensiveness of the final report, Trip clearly hadn't won very many of those battles. The Vulcan ignored Trip's accusatory body language, keeping her gaze steadily on Archer. "Captain, this does seem a rather drastic step, even for you." Her bar for his behaviour seemed to be set exceptionally low these days, he noticed. He guessed he couldn't really blame her for that.

Archer raised his chin. "I'll also be escorting Jamey Egawa's body back home." Two sets of blank stares made him thumb the screen of the padd, scrolling down to the relevant passages he had spent several hours studying. "Jamey was a Muslim. Islamic law says that you're supposed to be buried in the ground. As I understand it, if you die at sea, your body should be preserved and taken back to land for burial if at all possible." He shrugged and then dropped his shoulders. The last time he had accompanied a flag-draped casket home, it had held the body of his friend and mentor, Admiral Forrest. "I figure a ship in space and a ship at sea must amount to pretty much the same thing. If we skim the edge of the shipping lanes, there should be enough criss-crossing cargo ships to get me back to Earth."

"Sir," Trip said, "Crewman Egawa's death was not your fault."

"I never said it was," Archer replied in a chilly voice. "This isn't some ill-advised guilt trip over the loss of a crewmember. I've lost crew before. So have you. It's not about that. It's about this ongoing mission -- we're supposed to be out here as ambassadors, drumming up support for a war we all know is coming. I can't ... we're not going to get very far if I'm a paranoid ball of stress, ready to draw down on anyone who looks at me sideways." Now he did launch himself off the bed, pushing past Trip to pour a glass of water.

"Captain," T'Pol began, and her gentle tone betrayed the influence that humans had had on her after all these years, "it is natural for humans to mourn --"

"I don't need a lesson in human psychology from you, T'Pol," Archer interrupted, then added lamely, "or from anyone else. I'm just giving you the heads up, that's all. Look, I practically had to wrestle Phlox to the ground to get released from Sickbay. I would think you'd be all in favor of my taking a short break."

"But escorting Egawa all the way back to Earth, sir?" Trip seemed inclined to press the point. "That seems a little extreme."

"He was a part of my crew, Trip. It's the very least I can do." He picked up his novel and turned a page, rudely signalling the end of the discussion. After a moment of pretending to read, he heard T'Pol rise from her seat, accompanied by a deep sigh from Trip.

Trip spoke to the top of Archer's bowed head. "Just as long as you remember, sir: the rest of the crew needs you, too." As he passed by the foot of the bed, he paused briefly. "This isn't who you are, sir. Don't let this be who you are." The door swished open and shut without a response from Archer.

* * *

When the communication came in at two thirty in the morning, Archer was surprised to see Jin Sava's impassive face appear on the monitor. "Darala's continued reign is in some doubt," the politician said without preamble. "Those of extreme opinions are becoming more and more vocal. I am doing all I can to save her from herself."

"Any indication of whether she'll want to continue diplomatic relations with Starfleet?" Archer wanted to know.

Jin Sava paused for an uncomfortable moment. "The One is impulsive, and her natural inclination is to lay the blame for the pandemic at your feet. She is being pressured to cut off all ties with humans. I doubt she has the personal or political strength to resist."

"Why are you telling me this?" Archer was certain that this communication was both surreptitious and unauthorized. Jin Sava might have a great deal of power and influence on The World, but they had all seen, firsthand, the consequences of betraying The One.

"You are still labouring under the mistaken impression that I am a rival for Darala's power. In truth, I have protected her position in more ways than she will ever know - and I do not see the need to explain myself to you further." The _Teryat_ waited while the sting of his words subsided. "This ill-fated plan has pushed The World closer to war than we have been in generations. Not just with humans, but amongst The People, as well. Cutting ourselves off from the rest of the galaxy, even as your Coalition seeks to expand, would be as detrimental to our way of life as the physical removal of The One from the throne. I, and others of a like mind, must find a path between those two catastrophes." Archer nodded, sympathetic at least to the politician's predicament. "And ... there is the matter of the Heirs."

"The ... Heirs?" Archer's mouth went dry.

Jin Sava's eyes regarded the captain knowingly from the video screen. "Yes, the _Heirs_," he said, his tone loaded. "You should be aware that _you_, Captain, are the biggest threat to the dynasty. I have tried to assure Her Serenity that your ... involvement ... will not become significant, and I trust that is, in fact, the case."

Archer swallowed. "It is," he said. He had no intention of asserting any claim, however tenuous, on the Royal House.

Jin Sava paused then, as if to make sure he had Archer's full attention. "It would not be a betrayal of my loyalty to Her Serenity to tell you, Captain, that Darala is being advised by some to eliminate any unwanted complications. I do not know how far those around her will go to protect the integrity of the House. I will do whatever I can to counsel her in a different direction," Jin Sava went on, "but there _are _limits to my influence."

_Oh, excellent_, Archer thought. _Another bounty on my head_. "I understand. I appreciate the warning, _Teryat._" Suddenly the creeping paranoia he'd complained to Trip and T'Pol about didn't seem so off-base. It would not take much effort at all, in the scheme of things, to eliminate the physical evidence of the Heirs' genetic makeup - along with anyone with any knowledge. He wondered if Jin Sava had anyone watching _his _back.

The Carah Shon face remained unreadable. "Take care, Captain Archer," Jin Sava intoned, more as a solemn admonition than as a pleasantry. And the video communication ended abruptly.

* * *

Archer took a deep breath and reached for his personal padd. Trip's words had rolled around inside his head for the rest of the sleepless night, along with Jin Sava's thinly veiled warning. For however long he remained on _Enterprise_, he had his duties, and they wouldn't get done with him hiding in his quarters. He'd start by returning to command, fully, with his butt in the center seat on that Bridge.

_You will be disposed of_, Lab Tech's voice hissed from the shadows.

Archer looked around sharply, even as he reminded himself that he was alone. With a steady hand, he reached for the door control. "You're dead, go away," he said out loud, ignoring Porthos' quizzical twitch, and opened the door to the hallway.

His long strides took him to the end of the corridor, where T'Pol waited for the turbo lift. They murmured "good mornings" to each other, then rode to the Bridge in an almost comfortable silence. If T'Pol still thought his proposed sabbatical was a mistake, she was keeping her own counsel for the moment. He could read her well enough to know, though, that she was concerned about him. Even now, she studied him carefully, her analytical mind no doubt assessing his mood, taking his psychological temperature. He wondered what she would say if she knew that the Heirs she and Phlox had worked so hard to save - Heirs who were, however nominally, likely the only offspring he'd ever have - represented a serious threat to his life and well-being.

_She'd probably think that high-tailing it back to Earth might be good idea after all. Logical, even_.

He stepped onto the brightly lit Bridge and greeted his command crew. T'Pol slid into her seat at Sciences, and immediately began to send the backlog of status reports to his screen. He looked at the list: there were seventeen reports waiting for his review and signature. He clearly had a lot of catching up to do.

Hoshi's voice came as a welcome interruption, just as he was initialing Trip's latest Engineering requisition. "Sir, I have Starfleet Headquarters incoming for you."

Archer rubbed his eyes and bookmarked his page. "Thanks, Hoshi. I'll take it in the Ready Room." He rose from the command chair, shook the stiffness out of his legs, and made his way to his private office, feeling the weight of T'Pol's eyes on his back the whole way.

Hoshi was efficient, so Admiral Gardner was queued up and waiting for him when he clicked on his monitor.

"Hello, Jon."

"Admiral."

"I wanted to let you know personally, Jon, that the Carah Shon L'os have officially declined to join the Coalition. They made it plain that it had nothing to do with you – they don't blame you for what happened in any way. In fact, they took pains to inform us that _Enterprise_'s efforts were instrumental in avoiding even the option of war. They're willing to be allies, but not partners."

_And Starfleet bought it, hook, line, and sinker. _

"That's good to hear, anyway. They might come around, though, you never know." Archer tried to sound optimistic. The fallout would be left to the diplomats. Let them earn their pay for a change.

"I've read your report, Jon. Wild stuff. Sometimes I envy you out there, having all those adventures, but then – I guess it takes a special breed, doesn't it." Archer suddenly began to remember all of the reasons he detested Gardner. _More likely the Admiral's staff had given him a sanitized, easily digestible version of the mission, with no controversial parts to put Starfleet in an awkward diplomatic position. _"I've also considered your request. And, I'm sorry, but I just can't approve it." The Admiral showed no reaction as Archer's face fell. "We've been getting a lot of chatter lately indicating that the Romulans have been active on the frontier. We may need _Enterprise _to join _Columbia _on patrol and escort duty. We just can't spare the most experienced captain we have out there until we know what's going on. Your request for a leave of absence is denied."

"I see." Archer swallowed his disappointment. It tasted bitter, like ashes.

"If you really think you're going space crazy, I'll see if I can get someone to make the long distance trip. Maybe I can send a ship to rendezvous with _Enterprise_, drop off a counselor within the next six to eight months." The Admiral's voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "Just between you and me, Jon, we've got some pretty attractive ones assigned here in San Francisco. Couldn't hurt to send you one who's easy on the eyes, and a bit on the friendly side, right? Anyway, that's the best I can do at the moment."

Archer turned away from the monitor for a moment. "I understand, Admiral," he said. He couldn't bring himself to say it was okay, because it wasn't.

"Well, Starfleet Command will keep you updated on the Romulans' movements. Be careful out there, Jon." Archer nodded briefly but said nothing, and a second later, the transmission ended. He made a fist, but there wasn't anything to punch. Gardner, unfortunately, was several million kilometers away.

T'Pol noticed his unsettled mood when he returned to the Bridge. At change of shift, she followed him into the turbo lift. "Was your conversation with Admiral Gardner productive?"

"Starfleet Command is concerned about the Romulan fleet's movements on the frontier," he non-answered.

"Did the Admiral approve your leave of absence?" she pressed.

Archer gave her a sideways glance. "Why, are you anxious to become Acting Captain?" he teased. She did not smile. He sighed. She wasn't going to be distracted, clearly. "He told me that he needs my 'experience' out here for the time being." _And, he apparently thinks I need to get laid_, he didn't add.

"I see."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

T'Pol stopped outside her quarters and keyed the door. "Captain, may I visit your quarters tonight at twenty-one hundred hours?"

Archer was so surprised, he took an involuntary step backward. "Uh, yeah, sure," he stuttered. Did this woman get some sort of charge out of rendering him speechless? Without another word, T'Pol left her captain standing in the corridor, alone.

* * *

Promptly as always, T'Pol entered the captain's quarters with a minute to spare, carrying a yoga mat and a saucer containing a fat wax candle. She placed both on the floor at the foot of the bed. Archer took one look at them and snorted a laugh. "T'Pol, if I remember correctly, all I ever got out of Vulcan meditation techniques was a migraine. I think I even gave you one, too." Not even the echo of Surak's _katra _in his head could penetrate the brick wall of his mind. They had given up, by mutual consent and without recriminations, after three disastrous sessions that had left Archer cranky and T'Pol seeking anaprovaline from Phlox.

She raised both of her eyebrows as she lit the flame. "Vulcan meditation requires a mastery of one's emotions, a trait that humans do not possess."

"So you've said on occasion."

"And neither do Vulcan children." That shut him up. "Kneel, please."

Archer lowered himself to the mat, ignoring the creaks of his joints. Since T'Pol would not ordinarily touch him, he arranged his hands to mirror hers.

"You going to teach me nursery rhymes?" Archer asked, holding his hands stiffly in the pose she showed him.

"In a manner of speaking," T'Pol said, her voice hushed. "Vulcan babies cry when they are wet, hungry, or uncomfortable. These are basic needs that must be met, and it is their only way of communicating. They also indicate when they are frustrated, hurt, scared or angry." She adjusted his flagging hands. "Each child must learn to control his or her emotions, to surrender them to logic. It is a process."

Archer matched her whisper. "You're calling me a baby?"

"I am pointing out the similarities between an untrained Vulcan child and a human. Both feel strong emotions; both are able, with instruction and practice, to master them. Breathe."

After a moment, T'Pol commented, "You are very tense."

"I have a lot on my mind." _Failed missions, dead crewmen, and, oh, right - a contract Darala may or may not have taken out on my life. The usual._

"This will not work if you don't focus."

He began to rise, irritated already. "Then it's not going to work."

The Vulcan surveyed him with equanimity. "Anxiety is illogical. You must surrender all extraneous thoughts and emotions to the flame." She gestured to the candle.

"You're kidding me, right?" She just gazed at him, impassive. Archer sighed. "Fine." He settled back down and closed his eyes to concentrate.

She began by teaching him the correct pronunciations and meanings of the four basic mantras: _focus, calm, balance, harmony_. He relaxed his muscles under her direction, then surrendered his mind and will to the sibilant Vulcan phrases she whispered. He didn't understand all of them, yet for the first time in weeks, he felt the rage inside him begin to recede. The haunting strains of the _Sayn _gradually gave way to the sussurus of ancient words slipping across his mind and spirit like the gently blown hot red sands of the Forge.

Time stopped. As the moved into the next phase, every corner of his being was filled with a growing peace. The sense of personal violation, of outrage, gradually diminished.

_Every act becomes a choice. Surrender your anger to the flame._

_All lives, however brief, are to be valued and honored as a gift to the universe. Surrender your grief to the flame._

_What is is, and what has been cannot be changed. Surrender your regret to the flame._

_Fear is caution without logic. Surrender it, now, to the flame._

The aroma of the candle changed subtly, evoking memories of comfort, safety, even joy. _What is that_? Archer asked in his mind.

A voice, perhaps T'Pol's, perhaps his own, answered: _It's what the flame gives back to you. It is peace. _

He surrendered himself to it willingly and completely.

When he opened his eyes, Archer was still in the kneeling position, his hands relaxed, resting palms up on his thighs. The fat candle had burned down to a puddle in the ceramic dish and extinguished itself. T'Pol was gone. He stood slowly, using the mattress as leverage, expecting excruciating agony from his back and knees. Instead, he felt invigorated and limber, as if he'd just completed an easy jog. A quick glance at the wall chronometer left him in a state of mild shock. It was oh-five thirty, time for him to prepare to report to the Bridge.

He'd been meditating all night. _Well, I'll be damned_.

As he showered and dressed, he examined the painful memories of the past several weeks, like a patient probing a newly filled tooth with his tongue. There was no pain. The deep wound inside him felt ... almost fully healed. Maybe he'd ask T'Pol for another candle tonight.

"What is is," he said out loud to nobody, testing, and for once it did not sound like mystical Vulcan mumbo-jumbo. Shaking his head in near-disbelief, he stepped out into the empty, quiet corridor. For the first time in nearly a month, _Enterprise _actually felt like home, his home, and he wondered what had ever possessed him to think about leaving her.

As he entered the lift, a blonde crewmember caught his eye and smiled shyly. He smiled back paternally, and searched his memory briefly. Sciences, he recalled, by-the-book ... "Ensign Stackhouse, right?"

She beamed, her whole face lighting up instantly. "Yes, sir. G-good morning, sir."

"Heading to the Bridge?"

"Uh, no, sir. I'm just getting off of Gamma shift, sir. Going back to my rack. Uh, Captain." Her fair skin couldn't hide her furious blush.

The lift stopped a few seconds later and she got off at the crew quarters level. "Well, pleasant dreams, Ensign," Archer said, nodding his head in friendly dismissal.

"Thank you, Captain," she replied cheerfully, and the turbo doors slid shut on the peculiar sight of the ensign's eyelids blinking sideways.

The End.


End file.
